Who Let The Dogs Out
by silver ruffian
Summary: Happy Birthday Merisha! Hurt!Dean, Hurt!Sam. Multi-chap: the Dean whump, the rescue and major league Dean angst; comfort provided by Sam and Bobby afterwards. I was unsuccessful in keeping the plot down to a bare minimum. The 2 remaining chaps and the epilogue are posted today. Up now: Epilogue - Carry On My Wayward Son. NOW COMPLETE.
1. so much fun to play with

_**A/N: **_So, Merisha, I typed innocently, what would you like for your birthday fic? She grinned evilly (at least I imagined she did) and typed back: Hurt!Dean. All righty then. Your wish is my command. If you came here looking for plot and characterization, then my dears, I'm sorry, but you came to the wrong place. You might get some pop culture references or some halfway decent descriptions of something weird and eerie going on, but make no mistake about it, over half of this fic is one long Dean whump. Violence towards teh pretty abounds, and also much cussing. Avert your sensitive eyes and ears, young 'uns. I am coordinating this evil birthday plot with PADavis and Muffy Morrigan, so we will be posting every Tuesday. Mish, you are right. We are _evil_.

_**Summary: **_Merisha has requested Dean whumpage to celebrate her birthday. Three part multi-chap: the hurt, the rescue (and some left-over Dean whump) and the comfort. I will be posting one chapter every Tuesday. No redeeming qualities to this one, not much plot, just Dean Winchester as a chew toy for a pack of unusual fuglies.

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not profit.

* * *

_**Part 1 – so much fun to play with**_

Dean could still see the Impala down the hillside, parked on the shoulder of the highway, her sleek black frame nearly glowing underneath the moonlight and the overhead lights. That was _normal_ down there. Up here on the hillside was anything _but_.

The young girl screamed again, high and piercing, warbling at the end notes as her voice cracked. It was just for show, icing on the cake. They had him where they wanted him.

The five shadows in the brush all around him started to move.

The shadow in the lead was one huge bastard, all orange eyes and bright white teeth. It was four-legged, broad and muscular. That was all Dean could see, even in the bright moonlight and shifting shadows.

Dean didn't think. If he took the time to think he'd die, and that was something he'd just as soon avoid. His first shot hit the thing in the chest, knocked it back snarling and snapping at empty air.

It was pissed.

_That makes two of us, you stupid sonofabitch,_ Dean thought. He should have been back at the motel by now, eating take-out, the same fucking Chinese take-out that was cooling in the front seat of the Impala right fucking now, God dammit. Should have been relaxing instead, watching a hockey game, or maybe some chick flick Sam wanted to watch and Dean secretly wanted to.

After the month he and Sam had, one screwed up hunt after another, they both deserved some rest, deserved a freaking break, for cripes' sake. Dean had gone out for a food run, and on the way back ran right into _this_. It was a kid up there on the hillside, a little girl, and she was screaming. She was screaming, and he couldn't just keep on driving by, he couldn't…

The others fell back as Dean started to move. He tracked them with his pistol, placed his shots, good ones, each and every one. He still had the special loads, the silver ammo, loaded in his Colt 1911 from the previous hunt. Hunter's luck, which Dad was fond of saying, really wasn't worth a damn, but maybe this time, maybe…

These shadow bastards were black as night. They swallowed up all the air and light around them, like a freaking back hole or something, but the silver was having some kind of effect. Maybe it tickled them, maybe it stung their sorry asses. There was a moment when he'd punched a hole straight through, a moment in which he had a clear path back down to the Impala.

And like all good things, that didn't last.

Another one came in close. Dean moved fast, but it was faster. It latched on his left wrist and clamped down, shook its head from side to side, and Dean didn't feel a thing at first. He heard this bright sharp sound, like a thick branch breaking, as he jammed the gun muzzle up against the broad side of this fugly's head, pulled the trigger smooth and easy. The thing unclenched its jaws and jerked back.

Dean looked down and saw torn, ragged flesh. In the next second something dark and incredibly solid slammed into him from the left side. Dean went up into the air at an awkward, sideways angle as he struck that oak tree behind him. A bolt of pure white pain shot through his right side, down his spine, overwhelming the pain from his mangled left arm.

The ground felt soft when he hit. Dean laid there on his side and stared dully at the white bone sticking out of his skin. He thought about Sam.

Wondered how long it would take Sam to realize that things that gotten well and truly fucked up.

Then darkness descended and even that thought was gone.

* * *

He was dragged down into the black, and now the darkness let him go.

He couldn't feel his legs.

Dean blinked. His eyes were open, he could feel the grit and dirt caked around his lashes, but he couldn't see a damned thing. Everything was a grey, blurry smear around him that swayed back and forth. The top of his head felt like it was gonna come flying off. His guts did a slow, greasy flip flop, and he closed his eyes again. Better. Not hurling was good. Damn good.

His head hurt, a dull throbbing that went from ear to ear, pushed up against the back of his eyes and the top of his head, heavy and relentless. Dean breathed in ragged gulps of air and his body answered each heart beat with a new throb of pain in some other place.

Too many other places.

The right side of his face, scraped raw and bleeding. There were slivers of something stuck underneath his skin, in his right checkbone. Glass maybe? He couldn't remember.

He did remember how his left arm looked, all chewed flesh and jagged bone. There was no sense in fixating on that. He was freaked out enough as it was.

They'd stripped him down. He could tell that much. His black fatigue jacket was gone. So was his grey tee shirt. He was bare-chested now, and the air around him was dead, smelled stale, but it was warm, at least.

Dean flexed his right shoulder. At least he tried to, and white hot pain exploded deep inside his shoulder joint and muscles, traveled up his spine, one vertebrate after another. He made a noise that was halfway between a scream and a groan, bit his lips bloody trying to stifle it, but it came out anyway, hoarse and rough, full of pain and fear and rage.

_Pain will clear your mind._ That was part of the Gospel According to John Winchester, and it must have been true. Something bumped against the tips of his ears, on both sides of his head. His shoulder blades were all stretched out, but the pull was in the wrong direction. He wasn't strung up by his wrists.

He was hanging upside down, by his ankles, his fingertips about a foot from the floor.

Dean cracked his eyes open, and the room swayed, back and forth. Then, miracles of miracles, his stomach settled, got still and as heavy as a stone, as if his body was on overload and couldn't handle all the malfunctions at once. If anything had to go he was glad it was the urge to blow chunks.

Dean blinked again, and his sight came back, crystal clear, in sharp and merciless focus.

_Son of a bitch…_

He was nose to nose with one of the biggest damn dogs he'd ever seen.

* * *

Fido looked happy. A little too friggin' happy. Its eyes were liquid brown, deep set, almond shaped. It was the way the mutt looked at him that set Dean's teeth on edge, that knowing look as it stared him up and down, from his ankles down to his face. It was checking him out, giving him the once over.

_Oh, shit…_

"Christo," Dean whispered hoarsely, and the mutt grinned from ear to ear as its eyes flared orange.

It was hard enough getting all the details hung upside down like that. Dean's eyes hurt from the dim overhead lights, but he could see that this was one huge mother humping dog. One hundred sixty pounds easy, a massive broad head, huge square jaws, covered in thick black fur. Its tail curled up and over its broad muscular back.

Bobby had an English Mastiff once, a male. He named the dog Kissinger. Kissinger weighed in about two twenty, but he was a big baby, a cream puff. Bobby gave him away after a month or so. This dog might have been slightly smaller, but even in his condition Dean recognized that it was built for power, speed, and strength. If it were just a normal dog, that would have been bad enough, but this?

This mutt could have easily whipped Kissinger's ass. It made Cujo, that rabid St. Bernard in that Stephen King movie, look like a bunny rabbit. Hell, this thing could probably whip Superman's ass,_ and_ that skinny little white dog of his.

That wasn't the worst of it. There were four other dogs, just as big and just as black, with wide happy grins and dayglo orange eyes, sitting in a semi-circle behind the first one.

There were five shadows up on the hill. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this one out.

_Fun, _the dog rumbled inside Dean's head. He jerked at the sound. Jesus. It was inside him. went all through him. A trickle of blood ran down from Dean's left ear. That sound made his brain bleed.

The dog leaned forward, put one massive paw against Dean's shoulder. The right shoulder, naturally, the injured one.

"…gnuh…you son of a bitch," Dean grated out, "fuck you...get the hell off me."

The dog smiled even wider as it raked at Dean's shoulder with its nails. The knob of his dislocated shoulder moved and shifted underneath his skin. The pain engulfed him, made his muscles shiver and jerk helplessly as his nerve endings short-circuited. His teeth chattered as he shook.

It was a combination of everything: broken bones, torn ligaments, and God only knew what was in the saliva of the damned things. Large grey spots rose on the edge of his vision as Dean was swept up and away on thermals of pain that flowed through him, light as a feather, heavier than air.

_Fun,_ the dog thought again, and it was the little girl's voice, light and cheerful. _We hunt. We play. You stay here and play with us. _

It looked up, and the ropes around Dean's ankles loosened. Dean shuddered as he felt an invisible wave of force grip his body. He was on the floor somehow in the next instant, curled up on his side, as waves of ice cold pain and red hot agony coursed through him, as though his body was trying to decide which sensation was better. The muscles in his legs jittered and jerked as his abused nerve endings came awake again, needles of sharp pain that lanced through his muscles.

The dogs padded around Dean, sniffed at his skin and clothing, licked at his face and hands.

"Son of a bitch…get off me…" Dean snarled. Several of them drew back. That was not the reaction they were expecting from their newest plaything.

The lead dog came over and stared at Dean almost fondly. _Play time, or not. Thirty minutes. Your choice. _

Dean growled at him, and for a moment confusion flickered in the animal's dark eyes. Then it turned around and padded out of the room, and the other four followed.

The muscles in Dean's back bitched at the change in position as he tried to sit up. He lay there panting, heavily, and then tried again, pushing up on his elbows. He could barely feel the fingers of his left hand, and his right. He nearly face-planted into the dirty concrete floor, then he steeled himself and pushed up again, using the heels of his palms, both hands, and his knees. Pain roared down both arms, but it was only the beginning,

This could only get worse.

Twenty eight minutes left.

_What do you know, son?_ Dad said inside Dean's head. _What have you learned about these sonsofbitches?_

It helped to distract him. Took his mind off the pain as he tried, again and again to get up.

_Dean? _Dad barked as Dean slipped back down to the floor.

_Fuck._

_All right, Ace. Let me hear it. _

_This place, it's abandoned. Factory, probably. I think it's not far from the highway._

_You think? _Dad sounded amused.

_Educated guess. At least I'm not assuming._

_Good. Neither one of us need to be asses at this point. Okay. What else?_

_They've done this before. Where ever this is, it's far enough away from everything. No one can hear the victims scream. I've seen the way they move. Silver bothers them. Might be able to use that against 'em somehow. This place...might not have been cleaned out all the way. I see office furniture. Might be some salt around here. Something I can use. _

Dean was on his feet minutes later, shaky as a newborn foal.

He needed his right arm back. He was dead without it.

Dean stumbled towards that heavy old filing cabinet in the corner. He didn't give himself time to think. He slammed his right shoulder hard into the side of the file cabinet.

The pain dropped him on the spot, right on his knees.

Dean screamed out, loud and long.

* * *

The next installment will be next Tuesday. More Dean whump, and Sam and Bobby to the rescue.


	2. the bluebird of happiness

_**A/N:**_ Mish, I'm sorry I couldn't post this earlier, kiddo. Real Life got in the way. I'll make it up to ya. A huge thank you to PADavis who beta'd this for me. And, hey, Nana? You mean to say that a plot slipped in here? Oh, dang.

_**Timeline:**_ 2nd season, right after _Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things._ Geez.

_**A/N the 2nd:**_ The dogs in this story are Tibetan Mastiffs. The site will not allow me to post the link in the story notes, but if you head on over to the American Tibetan Mastiff website

you'll get a pretty good idea what these beasts look like. And thanks to Phoebe for the info about those creampuffs of the canine world, the English Mastiff. If they were in this story they'd slobber all over Dean and then push him off the couch. Not exactly what I had in mind.

_**A/N the 3rd:**_ BTW, I know that slamming your shoulder against something hard is not the proper way to reduce a shoulder dislocation. I loved seeing Mel Gibson do it in _Lethal Weapon_. What's good enough for Martin Riggs is good enough for Dean Winchester. So there. Nyah! (Yeah, I know. Real mature…)

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 2 – the bluebird of happiness **_

Dean came out of the white out moments later, on his hands and knees, gasping, panting. His muscles shivered and trembled underneath his skin. Each breath he took in was ragged and the stale air felt heavy, leaden, going in through his nose, down his throat. It was almost too much for his lungs but he forced himself to breathe in and out, slowly, ignored the taste of dirt and dust and God only knows what else in his mouth and throat.

Dead places smelled like this.

Places like Roosevelt Asylum. Like any number of dead places, holes in the world, Dean had ever been in. Normal got ripped to shreds in spaces like this. The shadows had teeth and a quick death was the best case scenario.

He had a chance now. Had his right arm back. He felt better. That white hot flare of pain roared through his bones and burned itself out. He could tell without even looking that his shoulder was back in place.

Dean coughed, then let out a loud, hoarse whoop of relief.

As the pain of his right shoulder subsided, the other pains in his body took up the slack. He felt tied and achey all over. His back hurt like hell too, especially when he sat up, twinges of pain that skipped merrily up and down his backbone like a little girl playing hopscotch.

Dean glanced down, saw the white of bone in his left arm and quickly looked away.

Okay. All right. He was _not_ gonna stare at his left arm. _Hell no._ He'd had worse injuries than this on hunts. No need to dwell on this shit.

On the plus side, he had one good arm, two good legs. Well, maybe not _that _good, because he couldn't walk. Not yet.

On the minus side, there was a pack of demon dog bastards just waiting to tear into him.

Dean stared over at that open door. They'd walked out that way, and the sight of that plain wooden door and that quiet hallway beyond scared the hell out of him.

_Da!_

That voice inside his head was low and rumbling, hungry and eager. It wasn't his voice, or Sam's voice, and it sure in the hell wasn't Dad. The word wasn't any language he'd ever heard before, and immediately after there was an echo, soft and light.

NOW!

The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood up, straight and painful.

_Shut the door._

Dean pulled himself upright on two wobbly knees and one good arm. He didn't go for the door, he went in the opposite direction, towards the file cabinet.

_Shut the fucking door, shut it right now ---_

It rocked and wobbled when he slammed into it the first time, but it was solid enough. He pushed into it, put his shoulder into it, pushed with his legs.

_Da! _

The sharp edges cut into the knees of his worn jeans, but that didn't matter

_NOW!_

Dean caught a glimpse of black fur, orange eyes, and sharp white teeth, and the cabinet was heavy but he could do this, he could, he had to. What's dead should stay dead? He still felt that way.

But not like_ this_. Not gnawed to death, torn apart bit by bit like some dime store chew toy.

Four feet away from the door, and they were grinning at him

…_bu…_

Three feet away and he was scrambling, grabbing at the edge of the door with his one damn good hand, pushing into the file cabinet, bruising his hip and legs and Dean didn't give a damn about any of that

…_boy…_

Two feet away and the dog in the lead was in mid air, leaping, jaws stretched wide and open like something Dean saw during Shark Week

…_da…_

…_now…_

Dean swung the door shut and the lead dog was caught near the upper left hand corner, wriggling between the door frame and the door, half in, half out, snarling, snapping at Dean's arm. Its hot breath smelled like rotten meat and sulfur, raised gooseflesh up to his shoulder. Dean was moving on pure adrenaline now, as he somehow half lifted, half threw the file cabinet up against the door,

The dog shrieked and snarled as the file cabinet slammed into the door. Dean leaned into the rusty metal, and the animal squirmed and wiggled, pinned, torn between snapping at Dean and trying to pull itself free in the opposite direction.

The dog's eyes bulged, flared neon orange. Its mouth widened and its body flattened out in the opposite direction.

Dean's eyes widened when he saw that. He froze, and the door opened up, crashed against the file cabinet.

Just a little wider, and the mutt would be in the room with him.

Dean didn't notice. He stared blankly ahead, was only dimly aware that he was standing by the door and the fucking dog was straining at get at him. He was caught up in the memory. He was helpless, just like before. Just like he'd been when they took him down.

_He couldn't stop them. That was the worst part. He couldn't move his arms and legs, just laid there, staring up at them as they pulled his jacket off, then his tee shirt._

_They were half dogs, half something else, orange eyed, slick black skin, pointy ears and mouths filled with teeth. They had hands instead of paws, long black clawed fingers. _

…_pretty…_

… _snying rje po…_

_They touched him all over, and they weren't dogs then. Not all the way. _

…_long time…_

…_dus tshod ring po…_

_Dean could feel their tongues against his skin. Moist warm nose leather, warmth of their breath as they smelled his skin, got his scent. _

_Didn't matter if they spoke out loud, or inside his head. He could hear them._

…_play time… _

…_rtse mo rtsed chu tsod…_

He knew what they were saying…

…_fun…_

He could hear them.

…_snang pa skyid skyid…_

…_so much fun to play with…_

Just like he could now.

Another hard knock against the file cabinet, and the fucking mutt was nearly halfway through, smiling this time, grinning, ears laid back. Dean blinked and came back to himself just as the thing's teeth missed his left forearm by mere inches. The file cabinet and the door rocked back. Dean's heels slid backwards on the tile floor, left black scuff marks, and he lunged forward again, threw his whole fucking weight into it, as the top file drawer came off its track and tilted, spilling paper onto the floor.

The dog yelped again as the door slammed into it again, yelped and began to flatten out again. Dean repeatedly slammed the door and the filing cabinet into its sorry ass. Dean growled, low and deep and dangerous.

The dog yipped as it pulled away, in the opposite direction this time, back out into the hallway. The others raised their voices, howling, snarling.

And the door slammed shut.

* * *

Whatever was left in the top drawer of the file cabinet rattled again, and Dean jerked the drawer out halfway with his good hand. Would have been nice if somebody had left a pistol or something in there. Maybe a bottle of booze? Jack or José would be a pretty welcome damn sight right about now.

Dean put his hand inside the drawer and started pulling everything in there out. Pieces of paper first. Blank invoices. Old, yellowed around the edges. Maybe _Anderton Ironworks _was the name of the factory. Didn't mean a damn thing to Dean. Didn't ring any bells, either, but it was nice to have a name to go with the place.

Ironworks, huh? Maybe they'd left some metal around. Something he could work with.

He reached in further. A black magic marker and a brown paper bag was next. Dean felt something smooth and round and pulled it out. Stared at it like it was the last thing he expected to see in this place.

Huh. Maybe the patron saint of hunters wasn't having an off night after all.

It was a roll of duct tape. Still good too, from the look of it.

Dean sat up, took a deep breath, and stared at his left arm. "Son of a bitch," he whispered softly.

It was a fucking mess.

His hand looked funny. It hung down at an odd, broken angle. He had teethmarks in his skin, all the way from his wrist down to his elbow, rips and gashes caked with dried blood. There was a five inch tear right in the inside of his arm, and white bone sticking up through his bruised, torn skin.

The good news was it looked like a clean break, straight across the ulna and the radius.

The bad news was he was headed for the hospital after this. He'd need surgery, probably. Screws. A round of heavy duty antibiotics, to be sure. Broken bone that's exposed to open air usually sets up infection.

Lovely. Just fucking lovely.

Dean stared at his left hand, stared at the way it hung down, limp and distorted. Didn't look real. Didn't feel like it was even attached to him. If he didn't know better, he would have figured it was some really gross special effect instead, something he'd seen at the movies. _Die Hard_, maybe. Bruce Willis.

Yeah. Bruce Willis could get tagged like this and still kick some evil bastard's ass.

Dean reached up and poked at his left hand with his right forefinger.

Damn. It didn't hurt.

Dean laughed, and poked himself again.

_Will you stop doin' that? _

"D-Dad?" Dean lowered both arms into his lap, stilled himself for a moment. The room did a slow leisurely turn around him. His heartbeat pulsed in time with this dull throb at both temples.

_You got a fever, kiddo. _

"It's…it's…warm in here…." Dean swayed from side to side. He panted and wheezed, and his chest ached. The air in the room was suddenly too warm, too humid against his skin. It weighed him down, made it hard to think. "Don't tell me, lemme guess." Dean glanced down at his left arm again, even though he told himself not to. "I'm poisoned. Demon dog slobber, right?"

_Yep. Dulls the nerve endings. They're not doing you any flaming favors. Makes their chew toys last longer, I guess. You're probably gonna go into shock sooner or later._

"Well, aren't you the bluebird of happiness."

John chuckled._ Hey. I do what I can._

"You're not my real Dad, are you? My Dad's dead. 'm hallucinating, right?"

_I'm whatever you want me to be, bud. Yeah, you're hallucinating. But it could have been worse._

"Worse?"

_I could be a dancing blue elephant instead._

Dean huffed. "Huh. You got me there." He stared down at his left elbow, slowly unrolled and wrapped the tape tight around his skin.

_Don't think about this, you dumb prick. Just do it._

The edges of bone grated together as he wrapped the tape around and around, up his arm. Dean yelped, just a little. A sharp, bright stab of pain went screeching up his nerve endings, but it died down after a moment or so.

All he could think of was getting it wrapped, past his wrist. Not tight. Snug. Snug enough to keep everything inside from spilling out. He wrapped the ends of the tape around and over his palm a couple of times, then bit the end of the tape off with his teeth.

Dean flexed his left hand a few times, wriggled his fingers. It wasn't one hundred percent, but he could grip things. Huh. The cure-all for pain is demon dog spit. Who knew?

He didn't want to think about how he'd feel this crap, whatever it was, wore off.

For some reason, all Dean could think of was Sam's bitchface when he saw _this. _The mess that they made of Dean's arm. The duct tape field dressing. That was typical Winchester style, all right. Gauze and cotton were for wusses.

"Got taken down by a dog, huh?" Sam's face would be full of that mix of relief and broodiness. "Send you out to pick up some dinner, and you can't even do that right."

Sam could bitch. Good Lord, the kid could bitch.

And Dean wanted to hear him bitch, at least one more time. Wanted to hear Sam bitch about no health insurance and fake credit cards.

Outside in the hallway something snuffled noisily around the bottom of the door. One of the dogs whined, low and pitful, like a housepet trying to get back inside after a night out.

"Just how stupid do you think I am?" Dean grumbled, and inside Dean's head Dad laughed.

Wasn't right. They were putting on a show, something to distract him, while the others snuck up from behind.

_Ace?_ Dad rumbled softly._ You gotta go._

Dean nodded. "I know."

He kept the duct tape and the rope they'd strung him up with, dumped them into the brown paper bag with the black magic marker. There was nothing else in this room, or the next two smaller rooms, except a cruddy looking set of metal shelves and two beat up looking desks pushed up against the far wall. He'd gone through all the desk drawers at a record pace, hoping that he'd get lucky again, but the only other thing left behind was dust bunnies and a packet of mayo. Nothing to get excited about.

The doors in all the rooms were off their hinges, but it was that last door that gave him the creeps.

Well, that and turning the lights off in all the rooms. The sounds outside the front door added to the whole creepiness factor. They were growling and snarling now, getting more impatient.

He managed to make it over to the last door, made it without tripping and breaking his damn fool neck. Dean stood there in the dark with his right hand on that worn brass knob.

Now if this was one of those dumbass horror movies there would be a fugly crouched on the other side. The audience would be screaming, "Don't open the door, you dumb bastard!" and the vic would open the door anyway.

Dean turned the knob, slowly. This door was closed, but it wasn't locked. He took a deep breath and pulled it open a couple of inches.

The hallway was dark, four doors on each side, eight closed doors in all. There was a chain link partition just beyond the hallway at the opposite end. The rest of the place looked like the open floor of some factory, filled with rusty oversized factory equipment that was probably too outdated to move or auction off when the place closed.

There was a door on the far wall. And right over that was a red overhead door light that said EXIT.

Maybe it was the fever spiking, but right then and there this gleefully creepy voice spoke up inside his head. Sounded like one of those game show announcers.

"What's behind door number one or door number two, Dean? You really wanna find out? Ain't nobody out here but us puppies, and none of us look like those chicks on _The Price Is Right._ Think you can make it to that EXIT door before we bite your ass off, Winchester?"

They were out there. He could feel them. Three or more of them had doubled back around, while the others stayed at the other door and made him think they were all still out there. They were between him and the exit door, crouched in the shadows of all that abandoned metal and steel.

Dean could hear them too, inside his head. Bits and pieces of words as they moved through the dark. Maybe that wasn't a part of the plan. Maybe there was something messed up inside his head, the same part that made him think Dad was in there, too. The fever baked slowly, just underneath his skin, and he didn't miss those faint jagged red streaks of infection going up his arm.

It was gonna get worse. Of that Dean had no doubt.

If he had to go, he'd make sure that Cujo and Lassie and Toto and all the other damn mutts in this place took the trip with him.

Factory meant metal. Iron and steel. Maybe the place hadn't been cleaned out all the way. Maybe he could find something he could use on these mutts, something to put them down for good.

He wasn't the first human they'd ever hunted here, but he wanted to make sure that he was the last.

Dean opened the door even wider, and slipped silently into the dark.

* * *

TBC next Tuesday. More Dean whump, and Sam and Bobby start putting two and two together.


	3. playthings

_**A/N:**_ Mish, here it is. Sam and Bobby are in this chapter, and somehow, someway I'm going to get everyone in the same place, just not in this chapter. How? Damned if I know. I'm making this up as I go along. Seriously.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 3 – playthings**_

It was a blur, one image piled on top of another. Blood, black fur, and sharp white teeth. Brittle snap of broken bone.

And _Dean._

Sam hissed a little under his breath as he shifted position, came more fully awake. The weight of the plaster cast around his right arm made him cradle that arm to his right side, even before he came more fully awake. He pushed himself upright gingerly.

Damn pain meds. He hated taking them, hated feeling drowsy and light headed and useless. Especially now. He'd fallen asleep at the table, next to his laptop. Again.

It had been two days since they'd taken care of that zombie girl. Hours since Dean stopped on the side of the road and admitted that he felt that "what's dead should stay dead."

Namely, him.

Still waters ran deep in Dean. Sam knew that most people thought Dean was some empty headed pretty boy at best, dangerous and unbalanced at worst. Neither of those were true, and Dean really didn't give a care what the outside world thought of him, never bothered to try to convince anyone otherwise, unless his guard was down.

And he very seldom let his guard down, which was why the conversation on the road was so startling.

Sam blinked. He didn't smell any Chinese take-out. He was alone in the motel room, just like he'd been when Dean left.

Sam glanced at his watch.

Two hours ago.

He fought against that feeling of unease that coiled around his spine. They were on their way to Bobby's, and Dean decided to stop for the night, which just wasn't like Dean. They'd been up all night disposing of the undead woman, and then the next morning Sam had to go to the emergency room for his broken hand.

He was uncharacteristically quiet and brooding when they got back into the Impala, and hours later he pulled into the Ellison Motor Lodge. Sam gave him this look as Dean turned off the engine. It wasn't the bitchface, not quite. Sam was worried and he couldn't help but show it.

Dean shrugged. "I'm tired, Sam. That's all. Credit cards are good. We can stay here for the night, get to Bobby's in the morning."

"Dean, you okay?"

"Oh yeah," Dean nodded. He looked tired, ragged around the edges. "I'm super. Saw a Chinese place down the road a ways. We can get a room, eat in, rest up."

_The hits just keep on coming,_ Sam thought dazedly. Any other time, he probably would think that Dean had hooked up with some woman somewhere, but not after_ this_.

"_It's my fault he's gone."_

Maybe it was the painkillers, but Sam's imagination was leading him into some places he did not want to go.

"_Dad's dead because of me. And that much I do know."_

Sam could see the Impala parked in a wooded area somewhere.

"_I never should have come back, Sam. It wasn't natural. And now look what's come of it."_

He could see Dean pull out his gun.

"_I was dead. And I should have stayed dead."_

He could see it so clearly, Dean sitting there with tears streaming down his face as he jammed the gun into the underside of his chin.

"_You wanted to know how I was feeling. Well, that's it. So tell me, what could you possibly say to make that all right?"_

Sam jumped at the imaginary sound of the gunshot.

His cell went off at the same time.

"Hel-hello? Dean?"

"Been looking for you boys," Bobby drawled. "Thought you were gonna drive straight through."

"Oh, shit." Sam whispered.

"What?"

"I was…I was supposed to call you, tell you not to look for us tonight. Dean decided to pull in and stop for the night. He's not…I'm worried about him, Bobby. He left to go get food two hours ago, and he's not back yet."

"Maybe he ah, made a friend somewhere. A girl, you know?"

"No, I don't think so. Never seen him like this before, Bobby. He blames himself for Dad's death. Dean wouldn't disappear like that…"

"_But._ I'm hearing a _but, _Sam."

Sam sat there quietly.

"Don't con a con man, kid. Not at a time like this. Do you think Dean would hurt himself because of John?"

"What? No! I don't think he would. But…"

"Thought so. Look, where are you now?"

"Ellison Motor Lodge, right off I-14."

"Okay. I'm two hours out. Sit tight. I'm coming. You called his cell?"

"Yeah. No answer. Gonna call the cell phone company, and track his phone that way. Look, Bobby, it's the middle of the night. You don't have to come. I can steal a car ---"

"I'm coming, and that's it. We'll look for Dean together. Your right arm's busted, right?"

"Yeah."

"So you need an extra hand, boy. Get his location through his cell phone. I'm coming."

* * *

The place was a graveyard.

Dean stood blinking in the dim overhead lights. He was dimly aware of the dull throb in his left arm. He was having a hard time picking up his feet.

_This is some seriously fucked up shit. I'm seeing things. Please tell me I'm not seeing this._

_You're seeing this, Ace,_ Dad rumbled inside his head. _I'm the figment of your imagination._ _This is real. _

There were bodies everywhere. In each and every room.

The first room was one of the small offices off to the side. The bodies in there were female. One sat behind the desk, the other one sat in the chair opposite. Their skin was dry, mummified, dark brown and flaky, pulled too tight over their bones. They died screaming, with their mouths stretched wide.

Dean saw yellow teeth, sunken dull eyes. Stringy dried out hair.

He could see the teeth marks in their skin. His own skin ached in sympathy. They were gnawed on. Noses and fingers, ears chewed half off.

The bodies didn't look right. They might have been killed somewhere else in the factory, but they were brought here.

They were posed.

These were trophies.

Discarded playthings, chew toys.

Dean scrubbed his face with his right hand as he sagged against the doorframe. He made quick work of the room, went through the desk drawers and file cabinets, and he tried not to shudder as he accidently brushed against the corpse behind the desk.

She felt hollow, emptied out, as though the life had been sucked out of her.

There was nothing he could use in the room, so Dean moved on.

In the second office there was a large television set with a broken screen that had been dragged in from somewhere, along with two large easy chairs. This room had five corpses. A man and a woman sitting in the chairs, holding hands, and at their feet, three kids, two boys and a girl, arranged at their feet as though the whole damn family was watching television.

In the third room there was a large dining room table and chairs. With eight mummified corpses in all, four men, four women. One of them had on a loud Hawaiian shirt and a camera around its bony neck. They all had faded party hats on.

A faded out pink and blue HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner hung overhead. It swung slowly in the dead air. The table was set with broken plates and glassware. Dean looked at the table, then blinked. Then he grinned.

_Yahtzee._

He picked up the butcher knife, helfed it with his right hand. Good weight. Nice sharp edge. It was clean, which might have meant that no one had the chance to use it.

Until now.

_Know your enemy, boys,_ John would say.

It was time to get a good look at the mutts, which, as it turned out, wasn't going to be that hard.

All five of them were lounging around on the floor in front of the exit sign below.

Dean crouched down in the overhead catwalk. He didn't fool himself by thinking that he had evaded them. He'd been tracked by dogs before. Bloodhounds, German shepherds, and those where just normal dogs. Put a dog's sense of smell with a demon's abilities, and there was no contest. They could have tracked him anytime, and there was no way he could have disguised his scent.

Would have been nice if he could have gotten ahold of some pepper, sprinkled it down, like Paul Newman did for those bloodhounds in _Cool Hand Luke_. That would have been something to see. The butcher knife had been left out on purpose, to make the game more interesting.

…_so much fun to play with… _

He was a plaything, and he knew it. They were letting him get the lay of the land, taking their time.

The party hadn't started yet.

_Like hell, _Dean growled to himself. One of the dogs stared at him and yawned, eyes blazing orange, wide and toothy.

Dean rolled his eyes. After all he'd seen, some hell bitch mutt with glowing orange eyes wouldn't even raise a pimple on his ass. Dean yawned right back, and the demon dog huffed to itself, possibly in surprise.

_Bastard._

They were all black, but there were differences between them. The biggest one, the heaviest one, was Mr. So Much Fun To Play With himself. He was jet black. He didn't have any scars on him. He was picture perfect.

_Gonna call you Cujo,_ Dean thought to himself.

His left arm throbbed, heavy and low, despite the venom.

Slightly smaller, the next one had lighter brown patches over both eyes. Dean couldn't tell if this one was a female or not; he couldn't get a clear view, and it didn't matter anyway. _Gonna make you my bitch. Lassie it is, then._

The next one had a slight rip in the left ear. Toto. He was just as large as Cujo. Toto could've eaten the entire cast of the _Wizard of Oz_, and then snapped up the Munchkins as appetizers. Maybe one of the victims was able to get their licks in before they were pulled down. Or maybe Toto was low in rank, and Cujo decided to teach him a lesson. If Dean could get them to fight among themselves, that might be something.

The other two. Pluto and Rin Tin Tin, sat further away from the others. They were low ranking. Pluto averted his eyes whenever Cujo even looked in his direction. Rin Tin Tin did the same. Pluto had a long scar going diagonally down his face, between his eyes. Rin Tin Tin's tail was docked shorter than the others.

Bitten off? Maybe.

Dean shook his head to clear it. The air around him had gotten too thick, too warm all at once. His knees were shaking, despite his best efforts.

"Mister?" someone whispered off to his left.

Dean stared.

It was a little girl. Couldn't have been more than seven years old, eight at the most. Her clothes were torn. Her face was dark with blood and bruises.

"How the hell did you ---" Dean muttered. She looked at him and started crying.

_Not real. Dean, you hear me? She's not real. You're seeing things, bud._ Dad yelled inside his head now. _You gotta move. Right the hell now_ ---

Dean held out his hand, and the kid whimpered when he moved towards her.

Out of the corner of one eye Dean saw one of the shadows on the catwalk rush towards him, orange eyes flaring. Dean was too slow, and he knew it. He couldn't match that speed, didn't even have time to draw the knife.

He hit the wall behind him, or maybe it came down and hit him. Dean couldn't tell. A rainbow of awful, bright colors flared inside his head, and then even that was gone.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Merisha, I know this is late, so I posted another story for you, in a totally lame attempt to make it up to you. It's entitled _Canidae Marking Behavior_, something from the Coyote 'verse, and I hope you like it too.

The Dean whump ramps up in the next installment, and Bobby and Sam hunt for Dean.


	4. things ancient and primal

_**A/N:**_ I hate my internet provider. I shall say no more.

_**A/N #2:**_ More plot has snuck in here. Iz ashamed.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 5 – things ancient and primal**_

Another motel someplace, somewhere. After a while they all blurred together, except for the places that were really nice, which were few and far between. This place wasn't so bad. It was halfway clean, surprisingly quiet. Dad got a job loading boxes at this warehouse on the other side of town. He wasn't hunting anything in this town; it was just a lay up, a place to rest.

Until the next hunt.

So that left nine year old Dean at home with five year old Sam. Sammy stared at the walls with this blank look on his face that made Dean's skin crawl a little. No kid should look like that. Five years old, Sam should have been climbing the walls, bouncing off the ceiling.

The tv in the room was busted. Sam wasn't interested in the few car magazines and week-old newspapers that were laying about. Dad promised he'd stop and get some comic books or coloring books on his way home from work, but Dean knew that money was tight. Dad wouldn't get paid for another week.

So Dean told Sammy stories, fairy tales that he remembered from somewhere

"Once upon a time there was a dead boy walking…"

But that wasn't right. He couldn't remember where he got that one from.

Dean tried again.

"What's dead should stay dead…"

Sammy wasn't interested. He didn't perk up until he heard the dogs outside, barking.

…_bu…_

So Dean let one of them in.

…_boy…_

Sammy played with the dog. Sammy laughed, and it sounded like he was screaming, and Dean couldn't understand where all the blood came from. He couldn't understand why his left arm felt so funny.

He could hear Dad whispering inside his head, from far away.

_Not real. Dean, you hear me?_

That meant Dad was close. That meant Dean had to get the dog out of the room before Dad got back.

Another nudge in the left shoulder, a little harder this time.

Dean groaned, a rough, confused sound.

…_lang yar bu…_

Wet breath against his right cheekbone.

_Wake up boy…_

And he didn't know what was touching him.

…_snying rje po…_rumbled inside his skull, followed by_…pretty…_

This wasn't some nightmare brought on by bad pizza or Chinese food gone rancid. Dean cracked one eye open, and it all came back to him then. He remembered it all, the warehouse, the dogs, the mummies posed like department store manikins in all those rooms over the factory floor.

Dean came back to himself with a jerk. He sat with his back against a wall, up on the catwalk, and he remembered that too, remembered being bounced against the bricks like a damn tennis ball.

His left arm was still wrapped in duct tape. He ached all over, pain from his back and side blending together until his entire body fairly screamed out in pain, which, the way this night was going, was nothing new. The only piece of good news in this whole clusterfuck was he hadn't managed to skewer himself with the butcher knife when he went airborne and slammed smack into his good friend Mr. Wall.

Said knife lay on the floor, about an inch away from his right hand.

Dean panted like a dog, which was a bad joke, when he really thought about it. His heart pounded against his chest so hard it was a wonder he could still draw breath. This was just one more hard knock to his system, one more insult that his body had endured this night. Part of it was just his mind and body's natural reaction to being the chew toy for the night, but he had to calm the hell down, and do it quick, fast and in a hurry.

He was eye to eye with Pluto and the dog was grinning at him, wide and happy, those orange eyes glinting in the dim overhead lights like a jack o'lantern.

Pluto's belly was on the ground, front paws outstretched, ass in the air and that thick tail arched over its back. Dean had been around enough dogs, had played with enough dogs in his time, to recognize a play bow when he saw one. Its eyes were bright and happy, and that huffing sound it made deepened, the sound of it rattled Dean's spine.

Playtime was over.

Dean cocked his head to one side slightly. Cujo, Toto, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie sat in a semi-circle in front of the exit door down there on the factory floor. Ears were cocked, heads were tilted to one side. It was him and Pluto up on the catwalk together, and Pluto was putting on a show for the others.

…_shi pa bu…shi pa…_

…_dead boy…dead…_

Dean rolled his eyes. That dead thing kinda lost its charm after the first fifty times. Fucking demons and their fucking head trips.

_Son of a bitch,_ Dad's voice whispered inside Dean's head.

_Glad you could make it,_ Dean thought dryly. _This is real, right?_

_Afraid so._ Sounded like Dad. Steady. Dependable. Every bit like Dad. Not bad, as far as hallucinations go. Just one more kick in the ass. One more thing to have to deal with tonight. The friggin' dog things, and whatever else his subconscious decided to spring on him.

_They're testing you. Lettin' this bastard take first crack at you._

_I know, Dad._

Pluto stared at Dean, and Dean stared right back.

_Damn demon mutt,_ Dean thought to himself. _Like to have some holy water with me right about now. Give this bastard an enema._

Holy water, blessed objects…that made him think of Pastor Jim Murphy, for some reason. Blue Earth, Minnesota, and Dean always acted blasé about it, but he loved that place. Winter, summer, didn't matter. He always felt welcome there. Pastor Jim accepted him, didn't push or pry at him. Dean could breathe there, and it was one of the few places on earth he felt absolutely safe and secure in, which was a real laugh, seeing that Dean didn't really believe in God, and Pastor Jim was one of God's folks.

One day, when he was a kid, Dean watched Pastor Jim bless a rosary in his church.

"May this rosary and the one who uses it be blessed, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." It was one of the gifts God had given Man, the pastor explained, the ability to pray, especially in times of need.

And sometimes those prayers might get answered.

After all this time, especially after he saw his mother pale and bruised and bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery, Dean always figured that the dude upstairs must have had his name on a list. Yep, Dean Winchester was number one with a bullet on the heavenly shit list. Ye shall do no favors for_ this_ kid, now and forever.

Dean moved slightly, and his right fingertips touched the knife.

Pluto grinned. It looked at the knife, and then looked Dean directly in the eyes.

_Go ahead,_ that look said. _Try it._

Now Dean remembered the simple prayer. The idea nagged at him. Maybe something inside his head had been knocked loose too.

What the hell. It was simple enough, but he changed it slightly.

_May this knife and the one who uses it be blessed, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. _

Then, because he was Dean Winchester, _damn it_, he added this: _Yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley. _

Dad laughed. _You'll have to get in close. No way around that, kiddo. _

_Sounds like a plan. Never wanted to live forever anyway._

Dean grinned at the dog, bright and feral. Something in those orange glo eyes flickered, dark and coiling.

The dog roared as it lunged at him.

Dean put his left arm up, jammed it tight inside critter's mouth, pushed backwards into the thing's mouth just as hard as it pushed towards him. There was a white hot spark of pain as his broken bones shifted, but the pain was distant, like it was happening to someone else, in the next room, maybe. He would feel it later on.

Not now.

The duct tape wrapped around his left arm began to shred. Dean moved, relied on muscle memory as he blanked his mind and went to work. He didn't think about how horrific it was that this unnatural bastard was straddling him, rabbit kicking him with its hind legs. He was vaguely aware of its nails tearing into his chest and his belly.

Pluto was showing off for his buddies down below. It wanted Dean's throat in its jaws, wanted to feel Dean's pulse in its mouth, fast and strong and panicky, just before it closed those jaws and ripped Dean's throat out.

The knife went in, over and over again, thudded against bone. Dean felt it, felt the blade slip and cut his hands. He would not stop.

Pluto stopped moving, and Dean sat there blinking in surprise.

Son of a bitch.

Some of the blood was his. Dean was pretty sure of that. Red hot stripes down his chest and belly, and the duct tape around his arm was pretty much ripped away. Pluto's thick fur concealed most of the stab wounds, but he was drenched with blood. Blood and thin wisps of dead white smoke coming out of his nose and mouth.

One eye was gone, carved out somehow, and smoke seeped out of that blank, empty socket.

Dean could feel the beating of his own heart. He was alive, fucking alive, and he might not end this job that way, but that was more than enough, right now. Maybe the patron saint of hunters was on the job this night. Maybe angels were watching over him after all. Whatever the reason, he'd just killed a fucking demon dog with a fucking knife, one he'd blessed with a simple prayer.

_So._

Sometimes the answer was _yes_.

Down below the four remaining dogs just sat there, staring up at him.

Stuff like this just didn't happen. Not like this. Not to him. Dean shuddered all over, felt a thrill of adrenaline sizzle through his nerve endings. He got to his feet, switched the butcher knife over to his left hand and stared at his right palm, painted in blood. His blood, and the mutt's.

Dean stared at the dark redness. It was like paint. War paint.

He drew a stripe across his forehead, one down the bridge of his nose. Two more stripes on each side of his face, from his cheekbone down to his jawline. He pressed his hand into the skin over his heart, then pulled it away. The palm print was perfect.

He felt ancient and primal, huge, bigger than himself. Older than the earth itself. His blood sang in his veins. This was man versus animal, hunter and prey, and right now the lines had been blurred.

"Come on, you sonsabitches!" Dean roared. "Who's next?" He spread his arms wide, and the dogs' eyes darkened, went from orange glo to pitch black.

No one moved.

They were each focused on each other, and none of them noticed a slight disturbance in the air, in the darkness above them. The sound was almost like the rustling of black feathered wings.

* * *

Bobby made it in ninety minutes.

Sam eased into the passenger seat of the Chevelle gingerly. His arm twanged a little more now; he hadn't taken any more pain medication. He put his duffel bag on the floor between his feet, careful not to jostle the guns and flasks of holy water and other stuff inside. The bag was bulging; Sam packed everything he could think of.

"Hey, Bobby."

Bobby huffed. "Where to?"

"The cell phone signal is on I-14, ten miles out. It's stationary. Hasn't moved for the last hour and a half."

"Okay."

Sam hissed a little as the pain in his arm started singing soprano. "Bobby, I appreciate this, but you didn't have to ---"

Bobby scowled. "We gonna start that up again? You're in no damn condition to be out here by yourself, Sam. You got a busted wing ---"

"Dad taught us to be ambidextrous," Sam muttered.

"And you look like shit," Bobby finished.

Sam stopped short. "I…I do?"

"Yep."

Sam would remember that moment later on, because it was the last normal moment that night.

Something thumped hard onto the hood of the Chevelle. Bobby cursed as he hit the brakes.

Sam stared straight ahead at what had landed on the hood.

"What the hell?" Bobby muttered.

It was a dog. Huge and black. It smiled at the both of them, bright and cheerful, and the smile even reached those orange day glo eyes.

* * *

TBC next Tuesday.

* * *


	5. the size of the fight in the dog

_**A/N : **_Thank you for your patience. I mean it. The internet gods have not been kind in my neck of the woods. Merisha, I know you've been waiting for this, and I apologize for the delay. Could have posted tomorrow morning, but I just didn't think it was fair to make you wait any longer. Hope you like this!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 5 – the size of the fight in the dog**_

The dogs sat there. No one moved. Lassie actually yawned, a wide toothy grin, like she was just so damned bored with what was going on.

"I taste good, bitches! Come on," Dean called out. "There's plenty of me to go around!" He raised his arms in the air, and the dogs tracked the knife with their eyes. "Somebody? Anybody?"

Cujo was pissed. His jaws were set in a tight, straight line, but he didn't make a move. Lassie, Toto, and Rin Tin Tin fidgeted in place. Cujo made a huffing sound, and it must have been a signal.

Rin Tin Tin got up.

He raised up on his hind legs, and he changed with each step he took. It wasn't anything like the movies. The shifting scene in _American Werewolf in London_ looked damned cheap and fake compared to this. It was a smooth shift from four legs to two. Rin Tin Tin's claws got longer and so did his teeth. He was as tall as Sam now, and he slobbered and grinned, ran his tongue over those sharp white teeth. That big bushy tail of his swung back and forth. Dean was fresh meat now, and Rin Tin Tin was one happy pup.

Fair enough. Dean backed up, ignored the pain in his left arm. It was held together by strips of shredded duct tape and a prayer. He gripped the knife in his right hand; it was all in the wrist action, and he could twist and slash in nearly every direction. The slash marks across his chest tightened and burned, all the way down to his bones.

He still had his work boots on; that was something he could use. Dad was quiet inside his head for once. Maybe the old man figured this was a lost case and bailed.

_Story of my life,_ Dean thought. _Even the damn hallucinations ditch me. _

Biggest disadvantage was, the rest of them sat and watched as Dean butchered Pluto with the knife. They knew Dean's fighting style.

At least, they thought they did.

Rin Tin Tin vaulted over the railing onto the catwalk, and he didn't waste any time. He sprang forward as soon as his back paws touched down.

Dean blinked. Rin Tin Tin changed again. His pelt grew thinner, actually pulled back underneath the pores of his skin. As his hair disappeared, so did that long snout, the ears and the tail.

_Son of a bitch… _

Dude was human now. Short black hair, and a body that made Arnold Schwarznegger in his prime look like a weakling. The eyes were normal now, hazel instead of day glo orange, and the one thing that Dean really didn't like was the smirk on this dude's face.

Dean was the one with the knife. All this one had was his birthday suit. He was bare ass naked, so why was Rin Tin Tin looking like he had the advantage here?

Rin Tin Tin laughed.

…_snang pa skyid skyid…_

…_so much fun to play with…_

Dean snarled, low and dangerous.

Rinny lunged forward, and Dean went to work.

First thing he did was reach down when he was close enough. He led with his left, and he really didn't know if it was adrenaline or what, but his fingers weren't tingling anymore, even though the rest of his arm looked like it had been a chew toy for one of Bobby's Rottweillers.

Jesus...never thought he'd be doing this. Grabbing the thing's cock was bad enough, but Dean grinned a little to himself, in spite of everything that was going on.

Hell with this.

He grabbed Rin Tin Tin's balls, both of them, and squeezed for all he was worth.

Apparently it was a guy thing, all right, no matter what the species. Rinny's eyes bulged out painfully, and he reared up on tiptoe. He threw his head back and howled, a choked off sound that made Dean's grin get a little wider, more feral.

His knife hand was in constant motion, slashing, stabbing, and he barely felt it when Rin Tin Tin's left hand lashed out towards his face, and those claw tips striped his cheekbones.

He was being slashed over and over again, but they were toe to toe now, and it was only a matter of who would outlast who.

Rinny shifted with each breath, back and forth, human to canine thing, and back again, with every blink Dean took. The fugly lunged forward, bulled his way into Dean's space. He was furry now, ears laid back, jaws snapping, goblets of white foam flying everywhere.

They collided, belly to belly, in a tangle of arms and legs. Rinny's head snaked downwards, towards the soft underside of Dean's throat.

Down on the floor below, Cujo lifted his head, closed his eyes, and howled in triumph.

…_shi pa bu…shi pa…_

…_dead boy…dead…_

Toto and Lassie stood up quietly. Their eyes glowed fiery orange as they stared upwards.

Dean jerked into Rin Tin Tin once. Twice.

Lassie huffed, and Cujo stopped in mid howl. He opened his eyes and stared up at the catwalk.

Rin Tin Tin's eyes widened. They flared reddish orange for a brief second, and then dimmed. His arms fell to his sides. He staggered backwards a little, as his body just realized he was dying.

Dean stepped back just enough to pull his knife out of its chest. He swung the blade upwards, slashed Rinny deep across the throat as the other dropped to his knees, naked and hairless now, then toppled over onto the floor like so much dead weight.

Dean flipped the knife up end over end and caught it.

_Gonna pass out,_ Dean thought to himself. His pulse boomed inside his head, pushed up against his eardrums. It was an out of control beat, almost frantic, skittish. He tried not to stagger. He wouldn't, not in front of them. He took a deep breath and turned towards the exit door.

Down below the dogs were quiet and still. They didn't move.

He couldn't go far. His legs went rubbery as soon as he was out of sight. There were offices down this way, and he knew with their sense of smell they could track him no matter where he hid. Best thing was to put as many doors as he could between him and them, slow them down. Maybe he'd wake up just before they got to him.

Or not.

The idea of being pulled down helpless just didn't appeal to him. Going down fighting was one thing. Being mauled like that, helpless, thrown around like a fucking rag doll, well, that was something else.

The third door Dean came to was open. Huh. He tried to listen out for the scrabbling of claws on cement behind him, but his head roared with the sound of his own blood rushing in his head like the tides. He shut the door behind him. had barely enough energy to push this large metal desk up against the door.

His chest hurt, and the muscles in his arms were weak, sprung. He nearly pitched forward face first when he pushed against the desk, had to stop for a moment and try again.

He was fading. Wouldn't be long now. Dean glanced over at the far wall, and he stared blankly.

Another door.

He was having a hard time walking now, but somehow he made it. He could barely feel the brass knob in his hand, and he turned it the wrong way at first. This door swung open just like the first.

The room inside was dimly lit. A mummified male body wearing a grey suit and a red tie sat upright behind the desk, with a gaudy purple cardboard birthday hat tilted on the top of its head.

Dean was too far gone to even care. He was on his knees in front of the desk, and he had no idea how he got there. He turned over, scooted up against the front of the desk. He had a bad moment when he couldn't remember what he'd done with his knife, but it was still there in his hand, dark and clotted with Rin Tin Tin's blood. He sat there panting, staring at the door. It was enough. It had to be.

It probably wasn't. He was in no condition to do anything else. He was in his own little bubble of hot dense air and it weighed him down, pressed against his skin, dull and heavy.

Something in the back of the room clicked.

_Door lock,_ Dean thought dully.

_Footsteps._ He couldn't even feel the knife in his hand anymore.

Someone came and knelt down beside him in the dimness. Small fingers reached out, tilted the side of Dean's face in that direction. The boy stared at Dean.

_Dark hair. Kid. Sammy's age. _

Hell of a time for his hallucinations to show up again.

The world drew away from him. It was too much trouble to keep his eyes open, so Dean closed them and slipped into the darkness.

* * *

Shotgun. Down next to the seat.

Bobby stared at the thing crouched on the hood of the car. He couldn't help it. It swayed slightly, from side to side. Bobby glanced over at Sam and the hair at the back of his neck stood straight out, stiff and painful.

Sam was staring at the mutt. He cradled his right arm to his stomach, and when the critter swayed, Sam swayed in place.

Bobby dropped his hand down, kept his face blank as his fingers brushed against the butt of his sawed off shotgun. Another windshield shot to hell. He could replace it, though.

If he survived this.

"Bobby, don't," Sam whispered.

"What?"

"Don't."

"Sam --"

The thing turned, jumped off the hood of the Chevelle and bounded off into the night.

Bobby pulled the shotgun up. "You stay here."

"No. You can't." Sam reached out with his left and pushed the shotgun down. "I won't let you hurt her."

"You won't let --- what? Her?"

"She told me where Dean is."

"She what?"

Sam nodded. He hunched over, and Bobby didn't like the way his breath hitched in his chest. Sam was too pale, and his hands shook.

"She showed me. Inside my head. They took Dean to the old Anderton Ironworks Factory, down near the highway."

"Inside your…wait a minute." Bobby looked around, but the beast was nowhere to be found. "Does the phrase 'mind fuck' have any meaning for you?"

"That's not what this is. I believed her."

"You believed her? _Her_?"

Sam nodded. "Her."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at Sam. "_She_ told you. Uh huh. You wouldn't happen to have a name to go with all this information?"

"Anya."

"And do you have any idea why this Anya would do us such a flaming favor?"

"She didn't say. She just said they wanted Dean."

"Anya." Bobby said quietly.

Sam nodded. He looked miserable.

"Okay, that's it," Bobby said briskly. "I want you to go back into the motel room." He pulled out his cell, looked down at it, and then scowled. "Damn. Rufus is half a state away."

"What…what do we need Rufus for?"

"Sam, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Kid, you look like twenty miles of bad road. I mean it. This is a two man job. If they already have Dean, how do you know this isn't a set up? They send this Anya here to lure you in?"

Sam raised his head, looked Bobby squarely in the eyes. "I'm not getting out of the car. I'm not. You leave me here, I'll steal a car and go to the Ironworks myself."

Damn kid's just as stubborn, just as prickly as his old man ever was.

Bobby pushed the shotgun down between the seat. "Anderton Ironworks, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. We're going. And on the way you're going to share with the class, tell me everything that thing showed you inside your head, Sam. You hear me?"

"Okay." Sam flinched a little. Bobby rolled his eyes. He was going into an unknown situation with a hunter who was hurting and had possibly been mind-fucked by the exact same critters they were hunting.

Not good. Not good at all.

* * *

TBC. This week.


	6. good boy

_**A/N:**_ And now we finally get to meet the master of the hounds, the one who let those damn dogs out in the first place. Trying to keep the damn plot in here down to a bare minimum. And what happens to Dean in this chapter will only add to the comfort in the later chapters, so bear with me. And hey, Merisha? Thanks for the icon I'm gonna use over on DA!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 6 – good boy**_

Pretty.

The lights were all around and above him. Dean knew the word for what he was looking at. He knew it, but he was just so damned tired. Couldn't breathe and think at the same time.

It came to him then.

_Candles._

So pretty, and Dean tried not to blink as he looked up. It was like the Fourth of July fireworks shows he remembered as a kid, taking Sam down to the park at night, sitting there on the grass, watching as the purples and golds and blues exploded in the night air above them. This was even better. Pinpoints of bright yellow light danced in the haze all around him, and it was soft and flickering and warm.

Sam was here, sitting beside him. Dean wanted to reach out and ruffle his hair, but he couldn't move, couldn't even lift up his hand. He was tired. That was it. Just tired. He didn't hurt anywhere anymore but he couldn't feel his feet.

The world around him twisted and shifted then. Felt like he was lying on his back instead of sitting up. Dean was too damn tired to care. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He stared up, and in the man in the mirrored ceiling above his head stared right back at him.

He was bare-chested, wore torn and bloody faded blue jeans. That right (or was it his left?) arm was held together by shredded strips of bloody silver duct tape. Nearly every square inch of him was bruised and bloodied, with deep scratches on his chest and belly.

Huh.

Dude was wearing dark red war paint. A handprint over his heart, thin stripes on his face. Short spiky dark blond hair, wide green eyes that were a little too bright and glassy.

Fingers lightly brushed against the side of his face. "Hey."

Dean blinked. Even his eyelashes felt too thick and heavy, and the corners of his eyes were gritty. God, he hoped he hadn't been bawling like some girl. He couldn't think of any reason why he would be crying, and Sammy would never let him live that down.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Do you like my dogs, Dean?"

"Uh huh."

"You do. I'm glad," Sam purred. He sounded more like a cat than a dog.

Dean laughed.

Sam did too. His eyes glowed reddish orange, and Dean didn't want to see that. He closed his eyes. It was too much trouble to talk and keep his eyes open at the same time anyway.

"I knew you were special from the moment I saw you. Do you know that?" Sam's voice deepened, went low and whiskey smooth. "I'm always looking for new talent. I've been in your head all night, and you didn't disappoint me. I knew you wouldn't. It's hard to find a safe place in this world. My hounds and I are far from home, and some of them have forgotten their place after all these years."

"Dad?" Dean slurred. "I wanna…wanna ask you somethin'…"

"Go ahead, Ace."

Dean opened his eyes. "Wha…why'd you make the deal for me, huh? 'm not worth that. 'm not…"

"You're a natural born killer, Dean. What I taught you was only the icing on the cake. Be a shame to waste that." John shrugged. His eyes flickered, burning red embers deep within the darkness. "What you did tonight only made me want you even more."

Dean's eyes fluttered shut.

"You always took care of Sammy. You took care of me. You never complained, not once."

"…wouldn't…do…that…"

"I know you wouldn't." Dean could hear the smile in John's voice. "Sammy and I need your protection right now, son. You're not going to let us down now, are you?"

"…never…"

"That's my good boy." John smiled, leaned down and brushed his lips against Dean's forehead. He angled his head to the side, his lips nearly touching the shell of Dean's left ear. "Come then, beauty. Change for me. "

…_long ba…_

…_come…_

…_change… _

…_brjes…_

The lights hanging in the air all around him pushed close against Dean's skin, covered him from head to toe.

Dean screamed.

The light filled him up, set his bones and muscles on fire, made his lungs hitch and jerk as his ribcage contracted down around his heart and lungs. His breath was stolen away and all he could think of was _Sammy and Dad, they need me, they need me more than ever now, and I can't fuck this up, I can't, I won't, _and Dean screamed as his spine lengthened and his jeans tore apart around his hips, he moaned out loud as he raked at the air around him with brand new claws. He had so much taken from him before, Mom, and Dad, Sam wanting to leave, Dean knew it, he could see it in Sam's eyes, every day, every fucking day. He didn't want to live alone, it wasn't fair and it wasn't right, and Dean threw back his head and howled as thick dark blond fur exploded from every pore in his body. He sank into the light, it stole his breath away, melted him down from the inside out and then just as quickly the heat left him cooling and twitching on the floor, lying on his side.

Sam stood there, a few feet away, staring at him, and Dean couldn't read the expression on his face. He huffed through his muzzle, and ignored the dust that raised up when he inhaled.

"Get up, Dean. Let me take a look at you."

It was hard. He couldn't get the hang of it at first, but this was _Sam_,_ Sam_ wanted this, so after a few tries, Dean rose to his feet like a newborn colt, shaky and awkward.

He glanced up at Sam's face, stared into his eyes, and Dean could see what he looked like now.

A large, beautiful wolf with dark blond hair and moss green eyes.

Dean whined, dropped his head down and stared at the floor. He wasn't like the others, wasn't black, with reddish orange eyes. He tucked his thick bushy tail between his legs and stood there, trembling.

"Beautiful," the Sam thing breathed. He reached out his hand and stroked the side of Dean's neck.

"Change is good, isn't it, Dean? Change is good."

He put his fingers underneath Dean's nose, and Dean sniffed at his fingertips, gently, almost daintily.

The Sam thing laughed. Dean blinked and Dad was there, kneeling in front of him, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling as he ran his fingers through Dean's fur.

Dean ducked his head, and very slowly, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a smirk, and his tail wagged. Just a little.

"Good boy," The Dad thing rumbled. "Such a big good boy…"

* * *

**_A/N:_** I'm going to end this chapter right here. Why? 'cause I'm evil, that's why.

TBC. Soon. Very very soon. And Phoebe? _Patricide?_ I haven't forgotten you. Will post that one tomorrow.


	7. the call of the wild

_**A/N:**_ Hey, Merisha! Just got my computer and my internet connection back, so away we go!

_**A/N #2:**_ This is not a dream. Dean really turned into a wolf. Also, Dean as wolf (and what he does while four-legged) has a huge impact on the angst and comfort section of this fic later on, so I appreciate all the folks who are hanging in here. I know exactly where I'm going with this, and I don't think you'll be disappointed. I have borrowed (and you will recognize) some dialogue from _A Very Supernatural Christmas, _and I've made use of some paraphrased dialogue from_ Devil's Trap. _

_**A/N #3:**_ The Tibetan prayer? I made it up. And plot has crept in here despite my best efforts. Damn. This chapter does contain implied non/con involving a very young Sam Winchester.

* * *

_**Chapter 7 - the call of the wild **_

"Chinese food's in the front seat. Stone cold," Bobby said out loud. He straightened up as he closed the driver's side door, and even though he was on the shoulder of the road, he lowered his shotgun to his side, kept it down next to his leg. Not much traffic out this time of night, but the last thing they needed was some do-gooder passing by making a 'man with gun' call in to the county mounties.

Sam leaned against the Impala, cradled his arm to his belly. The lights overhead on the highway made his skin even paler, cast deep purplish shadows underneath his eyes. "Bobby, I know how this sounds…"

"Oh, you do, huh?" Bobby grunted as they walked back to the Chevelle. "I should be taking you to a hospital, Sam. You look like death warmed over. Have I told you that lately?"

"Only eight times in the last fifteen minutes. Nine times now," Sam muttered darkly. He stumbled a little as he turned and looked up at the hillside above. "Dean was driving by. They lured him in."

"How?"

Sam shrugged. "Made him think a kid was being hurt. He heard her scream."

"That'll do it." Bobby nodded. Fuglies who targeted children always enraged Dean the most. Bobby took his cell out, flipped it open, hit a number on speed dial.

"What?"

"Tow truck driver I know. Lives nearby. He can come out and get the Impala."

"Bobby, it's past midnight. _Way _past midnight."

"I know that. Hey, Winston? Yeah. Singer. Look, there's a 1967 black Chevy Impala out here on the shoulder on I-14, just past marker 321. I need it towed. _Right now._ Uh huh. Okay. Bye."

Sam stared at him. Bobby shrugged as he slipped his phone back into his vest pocket. "What? He owes me big time. Saved his ass from this snake thing down in the Ozarks. Now, you said that this critter…"

"Anya."

"She told you there were others like her. Five others, at the factory. Said they were a long way from home and their master had gotten sick."

"Sick in the head, that's right. She said back home they used to protect travelers in the mountains, but when they came over here things changed. They started killing them instead."

"And now they want Dean."

Sam nodded. "Not to kill. To take. He's…" Sam stared down at his boots as he stood by Bobby's car. He flinched as he reached for the door handle with his injured right rather than his left. "He's…he's special."

"And what the hell does that mean?"

"She didn't say."

"Well I appreciate the heads up, but Anya could have been a little more specific," Bpbby growled as he slid behind the wheel. He waited as Sam gingerly folded himself onto the passenger side. "She didn't happen to tell you how to kill the damn things, did she?"

Sam inhaled, a stuttering motion that made his chest hitch. "Yeah. She did. She told me this prayer. Said we should bless our ammunition with it."

"That's good news!" Bobby actually smiled, then he picked up on the vibe Sam was giving off and the smile dimmed. "Hell," the older man grumbled. "What?"

Sam shook his head. "She said by the time we get there, it'll be too late. We'll have to kill Dean too."

* * *

When Dean stared at John there was something in the air all around Dad.

Dean sat there inside his wolfskin, with his head cocked to one side, and he stared and stared. He was trying to wrap his head around what she was seeing. He tried not to stare, but he couldn't help himself.

Sometimes the second image was tall and shining and stood straight up, brilliant and gleaming and the face was flat. It shone like a mirror. The bright light hurt Dean's eyes and he tried not to whimper like some week old puppy.

The air darkened, churned red and black and the shadow hunched over. The edges were long and tattered, rustled in the air like torn curtains in a vacant house somewhere.

Dean backed up, blinking, and he snarled a little when three pairs of big bulging eyes and two sets of long yellow fangs pushed out into the air where the face would have been. It was directly in front of Dad's face, but Dad didn't seem to notice.

Dean flattened his ears against his head and chuffed softly to himself. Everything was fine now. _He_ felt fine now. His legs were like springs, full of power and bounce, and he couldn't understand why he felt so tired before.

Another blink, and Dad was gone. Sammy was here now_. _Dean wagged his tail so hard his body shook. He closed his eyes, sat down and leaned into Sammy. Sam laughed, and the sound made Dean very happy, so happy he actually grinned. The grin got even wider when Sam threw his arms around Dean's neck and hugged him, fierce and tight.

"Here, you big goof. I want you to have this."

Dean opened his eyes and pricked his ears alertly at the metal object in Sammy's hand. It was dull copper, a small face strung on a long black cord. He nosed it, and then sneezed explosively. His nose filled with this scent he'd never smelled before, heavy and spicy like cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with wet blood. Dean sneezed and Sam smiled a little.

Dean cocked his head slightly to one side. The metal made his nose leather tingle when he sniffed it again. He sneezed again.

The amulet was familiar, wasn't it? Didn't he have one like this before? Not exactly like this one, but…The eyes and mouth on this one was stretched wide open. It bared its teeth at him, all smiles and fangs, full of happiness and murderous glee.

A part of Dean wanted to bite the damn thing.

"Here, Dean. I want you to have this. Uncle Bobby gave this to me. I was supposed to give it to Dad, but he's not here."

Dean whined, low and rough. He laid his ears back and the corners of his mouth twitched up and then downwards. His shoulders sagged. _If it's for Dad, you oughta give it to him…_

"No," Sam said gently. "I want you to have it."

Dean huffed. _Now_ it was okay. He relaxed then, and Sam smiled happily. Dean stood up on all fours, and Sam slipped the black cord around his neck. He held the amulet between his fingers and very carefully centered it in the middle of Dean's chest. It tickled against his skin.

It felt good. _He_ felt good.

Dean snuffled at Sam's fingers and Dad was there again.

"Come on, bud." Dad stood up, and Dean stared up at him alertly, ears pricked. "Got some folks I really want you to meet."

* * *

"Anderton Ironworks' down the road a ways," Bobby shrugged as he turned the ignition off. "Thought we might do this blessing before we get there."

Sam just sat there, looking hollow-eyed and downright miserable.

Bobby blew out a breath. "Going up against something we don't know anything about is the best way I can think of to get killed. The only intel we've got came from one of those things. Not gonna run off and leave you and Dean like this, though."

"You don't believe me."

"I don't know what to believe. Haven't met too many of these bastards that were willing to tell hunters how to kill them." Bobby blinked as he looked out on the dark road ahead. "Matter of fact, haven't met _any_. Until now. We're gonna have to play this one by ear. Now I got some holy water and silver we can use. Came from Vatican City, so it's a little more supercharged than the regular stuff. Got a couple of machetes that were blessed by Pope John Paul 2nd in 2003."

Sam stared at him in awe. Bobby shrugged. "What? He owed me a favor too." He opened the door and stepped out. Bobby already had his flashlight on and the trunk open by the time Sam joined him at the back of the car.

Bobby glanced at the machetes racked in the top of the trunk compartment, then he glanced at the cast on Sam's right arm. "How much range of motion have you got in that arm?"

Sam compressed his mouth to a thin hard line. "I can handle a gun. Handle anything we're gonna use."

Bobby snorted. Right. Sam wouldn't admit it even if his right arm was falling off. "I got an idea." He glanced down at the guns, ran his fingers over an M4A1 assault rifle with an adjustable strap. "You can go full auto with this one. Don't wanna get close unless we absolutely have to, especially if the rest of 'em are as big as she is. We're gonna have to improvise. Okay. Let's hear the prayer."

Sam took a deep breath, and then plunged right in, slowly at first. "Zhi bde ngo g-yos g-yon…ma gzugs po khru…phar gzim nyi ma…'jag gnang dgos bde po…rta zhon."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Damn."

"What?"

"Did she tell you what it meant?"

"Um…go in peace, release these wayward, restless spirits from this tormented flesh…"

Bobby nodded. "Huh. Sam, that's Standard Tibetan."

"You recognize some of it?"

"I got the gist of it." The older hunter stared down at the contents of the trunk. His eyes unfocused a little. Bobby actually seemed a little flustered, which was a totally new look for him.

Sam didn't know whether to feel vindicated or uneasy. His right arm hummed with pain, sharp at times, and now dull, just below the surface of his skin. Sam pushed it down, relegated it to background noise. Right now Dean needed him. Until Sam got his big brother back, Sam could deal. Would deal.

Bobby sensed this. He glanced at Sam and nodded, satisfied. "All right then. Time to go to work."

* * *

The others hid in the shadows as they walked through the factory. Dean positioned himself between them and Dad, stalked proud and stiff-legged, with his tail and ears raised alertly. Three left now: Cujo, Lassie and Toto. They were ink black in the shifting darkness, as dark as Dean was light. A rumble came from the darkness.

…_shi pa…_

…_dead…_

…_bu…_

…_boy…_

Dean chuckled, a low rumbling sound, deep and low in his throat. It was Cujo.

_Got your dead boy right here, punk._

He locked eyes with Cujo, lifted up one corner of his muzzle to reveal sharp white teeth.

Cujo blinked, and Dean smirked a little.

Dad laughed. "Come on, Dean."

Dean went.

* * *

It was one of the larger rooms, a storage area, with a large wire cage in the far corner that reeked of human blood and human fear.

A man and a woman was in the cage. The man was older than Dad, heavyset, balding, gone to fat now. He wore blue jeans and a red and black plaid shirt, and his scent was diesel fuel, No-Doze, sweat and beer.

The woman was about Dean's age, with light brown, shoulder length curly hair. She had on painted on blue jeans and a red belly shirt that was covered with small black plastic pony beads. Twenty or so jelly bracelets (blue, green and red) adorned her left arm. She was barefoot, and she was still bleeding; a trickle of blood ran down from her nose down the side of her mouth.

Dean padded to the front of the cage and looked in. The fear smell got even stronger, and both humans backed away to opposite corners.

The air around Dad rippled, and Sam was back again. He was wide-eyed, and his face was streaked with tears as he stared at the man in the cage.

"He touched me, Dean," Sam whimpered. He trembled and shook.

Dean jerked around and stared at him, ears pricked, wide eyed.

"He hurt me." Sam stammered. "I didn't tell you…I couldn't…"

Dean made a sound, a low mournful noise, somewhere between a whine and a moan. The ground seemed to slip and slide out from underneath his paws.

Dad was there, suddenly pale and clutching his side. His fingers were slicked with blood, and Dean's nose filled with the scent, thick and coppery.

John dropped to his knees, and Dean bounded over to him, pushed up against him. "Intel about the job was wrong...it was her..."

"Wasn't feeling well that day…just wanted to close my eyes…" Sam whispered inside Dean's head, a small, bright spark that set off a series of awful images that froze Dean in place.

John's voice, low and shaky, and Dad shouldn't look like that, shouldn't look pale and weak. "Exorcism didn't work…"

_They hurt my family,_ Dean thought to himself. _They hurt Sam…_

"…when I woke up he was on top of me…"

_They hurt Dad…_

"…let my guard down…"

He breathed in and out, and the air tasted like fire and rage, heavy and thick, burned him right down to his core, fed by what he was seeing inside his head. Dean saw it all, saw Dad with the journal, watched as the woman batted John effortlessly into the far wall and then started carving on him with her knife.

"…different kind of demon…"

Saw Sam, pinned down, helpless...

"…hurt me...I couldn't stop him…"

Dean threw back his head and howled.

…_hurt them…_

Dean turned and charged at the cage gate.

…_kill them…_

He smashed through the metal like it was tissue paper.

…_kill them all…_

He was closest to the woman when he landed inside the cage. She was soft, and she fought him like, well, she fought like a girl, flailing helplessly. Dean had her by the throat, and it was so quick, he pulled and ripped at her in a blur of teeth and claws.

The man thought he could run while Dean was tearing at the woman.

He thought wrong.

Dean lunged at him, sunk his teeth into his right leg, tasted blood and quivering flesh that screamed and cursed and fought just as badly as the demon bitch did.

_Good._

Dean's head filled with the smell of Dad's blood, filled with _Sammy hurt, Sammy scared._ The man's right leg snapped nearly in two as Dean bit down hard and dragged him backwards. Dean didn't hesitate, and he didn't flinch.

He never saw the way Dad's face shifted and darkened, from ashen grey to deep blood red. The two extra sets of eyes blinked, and its mouth was set in a fierce, fanged grin. The smile got wider as Dean ripped the trucker's left arm from its socket.

"Perfect," it breathed. It changed, back and forth, from Sam to Dad, and then it was Sam again. "Mine now. Now and forever. Too late, Anya. Too late..."

* * *

_**Next:**_ Bobby and Sam show up at the factory.


	8. wayward son

_**A/N: **_Once again a bit of plot and backstory has snuck in here somehow. Oh well.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 8 – wayward son**_

Sam barely flinched as he gripped the Bowie knife with his right and slipped it into his belt sheath. Dad taught them both to be ambidextrous, which was a damn good thing; Sam forgot sometimes, led with his right, despite the pain, and the cast. Maybe Bobby was right; he was aching and wasn't at his best, but none of that mattered while Dean was out there somewhere.

Sam had another knife on his left ankle, a flask of holy water in his jacket pocket, and an ax in a holster on his left hip. Everything was blessed. _Everything. _

"…go in peace…"

"_What's dead should stay dead, Sam."_

"…release these wayward, restless spirits from this tormented flesh…"

"_You asked me how I was feeling. Well, now you know. Now tell me, what could you possibly say that would make that all right?"_

Nothing. Sam could say nothing. He could only watch as Dean's broad shoulders shook and tears streaked down his face.

What the hell do you _say_ to something like that?

_Should have watched him closer,_ Sam thought to himself. _I should have been the one to make the Chinese food run. I could see he was tired. That zombie thing was bothering the hell out of him. I should have paid more attention. I should have…_

"Sam," Bobby said softly, "kid, I can hear you brooding all the way over here."

"Sorry, Bobby."

"Sorry for what?" Bobby pointed the assault rifle skyward with one hand and patted his vest pocket with the other, a last minute check for his holy water flask.

"Sorry I got you into this. Sorry I didn't…" Sam swallowed hard, struggled to push air past that suddenly hard lump in his throat. "Should have paid more attention to Dean, that's all." Huh. He actually sounded calm and normal.

"Shoulda woulda," Bobby said, not unkindly. He shifted his duffel onto his right shoulder. "That's not gonna help Dean. Give yourself a break, Sam. You deserve it."

_No, I don't,_ Sam thought. Bobby's eyes narrowed as he looked past him, and Sam could feel her standing there.

Bobby stepped to Sam's right, snapped the assault rifle up to his cheek, laid the gunsight right between those orange day glo eyes.

"Anya," Sam said softly.

The huge black dog sat there six feet away. She made a soft grunting sound.

Bobby's eyes narrowed as he lowered the rifle. "Well?"

"She wants us to follow her."

_I'll bet she does,_ Bobby thought sourly. _She wants us to follow her right into the jaws of her playmates._

Well, hell. They'd come this far… "All right," Bobby rumbled at the dog. "Lead on."

* * *

_Sammy… _

Sammy sat on the floor, shoulders hunched over. He pressed his face into his knees and rocked back and forth slightly.

_Sam? Dude, please…_

He was crying, and he wouldn't stop.

Dean paced back and forth, his blond fur splattered with blood and gore. He pawed at this thing on the floor that looked like a football. It wobbled when he touched it, and Dean realized it was a human heart.

Sam whimpered, just a little louder.

_Crap. _

Dean shook himself from head to his tail, tried to make himself as clean as clean as he could. He padded over to Sam, gently nosed him in the shoulder.

_Sam, I got the sonofabitch. I did. Please…_

Sam snuffled, wiped his nose with his sleeve. His shoulders shook. He buried his face against his knees.

Dean glanced back at the various meaty bits and body parts on the floor, and he wished they'd move again.

Wished he could kill them again.

'_m sorry. Sorry I didn't stop him before. _

"Dean?"

Dad was here now. Dean's ears and tail drooped as he turned and looked up at him.

"What happened?"

Dean whined, low and soft. _Dad, please…_

"I said what happened to Sam?" Dad reached down. He dug his fingers deep into Dean's ruff, sank his fingernails deep into Dean's skin and yanked. Dean didn't make a sound, even though it hurt like hell. He was up on his hind legs. "Didn't I tell you to keep an eye on him, Dean? Didn't I tell you that?"

…_sorry…Dad, 'm sorry…_

"NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" John roared, and he lifted Dean up even higher and flung him into the wall nearby.

He hit the wall at an awkward angle, his right foreleg folded underneath him. Dean was vaguely aware of the bright quick snap of bone. Everything went white as he tumbled down through the air. He hit the ground on his side in a cloud of dust so hard his jaws shapped together, but even that pain was nothing compared to what he saw when the dust settled and his head cleared.

Dad looked at him different.

Dad was_ disappointed_ in him.

Fort Douglas. That was the last time he fucked up big time like this, and Dad ignored him then, ignored him for a solid month. Dean was a waste of space, a blank hole in reality.

Not that again. _No, please… _

Dad strode towards him through the blood and muck on the floor. He was tall and strong, stronger than Dean would ever be. He didn't smell like _bloodpainhurt _anymore. Dean whimpered and closed his eyes. He didn't move, not even when Dad kneeled over him and dug his fingers into his neck again.

Dad pulled him back upright, and everything went wrong then. Dean could feel it, nearly moaned out loud as he felt his fur disappear and his ears shorten. His body was weak again, naked and broken.

"Dean?" Dad gave him a little shake. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy."

Dean did.

"You did this," Dad said, nodding down at the body parts all around," but it's not enough. You look after this family, but it's not enough. If you had done your job, none of this would have happened in the first place. Do you understand me, Dean? "

"…sorry…Dad, 'm sorry…."

"You have one job. Dad said softly. He tightened his grip and yanked Dean's head back. "Look after your brother. Look after me."

Dad brushed his fingers through Dean's short spiky hair with his other hand. Dean hated this. Hated himself. He felt stronger when he was four legged, stronger, more alive. If he'd been wolf he could have stopped it _all_.

"…I'll do better," Dean mumbled. "I promise. I will. Please, Dad…"

Dad grunted. He released his grip and walked away.

Dean fell to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

He changed as soon as his belly touched the floor. He was wolf again, and he grinned to himself as he tried to push himself up. His left foreleg was bent at an awkward angle, and his right was too.

Dad never turned around.

_No. Please…_

He kept on walking.

_Dad, please don't leave me…please…_

He knew better than to whine. Dean crouched there, hissing through the pain as the bones knitted themselves back together. After a moment he finally stood upright again, wobbly and awkward.

Dean took one halting step, and then another. He kept his head down as he followed Dad's scent out. He'd have another chance. Dad would have to give him another chance…wouldn't he?

Another chance to make it right…another chance to protect his family.

The more he moved, the better he felt. Dean padded up to the doorway and stood there with his ears pricked. Dad walked down the hallway, with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

There was something else out there.

_Cujo._ Dean growled, low and deep in his throat.

His hackles rose as he picked up other scents.

Lassie and Toto were nearby.

They were hunting Dad.

* * *

"Jesus Christ," Bobby breathed softly. He stared at the corpses wearing party hats.

They'd gotten in the building, and wonder of wonders, they were still alive and in one piece.

None of that made Bobby feel any better.

The place was a graveyard, one room after another of mummified corpses displayed in various poses.

"They're trophies," Sam nodded. He had this faraway look in his eyes, and that was worrisome enough. Bobby wondered what the boy was seeing.

The dog, this Anya, was even bigger close up. Bobby guessed she easily weighed two hundred pounds. Those orange eyes of hers glowed in the darkness as she padded in front of them.

Sam looked even paler than he had when they arrived. He held the assault rifle pointed down, at the floor. Bobby held his upright, pointed away from Sam and Anya, but still in position just in case.

The huge black dog stood in the hallway with her ears down and her tail tucked between her legs.

"We need to find Dean and get the hell out of here right now," Bobby gritted out. He backed away from the doorway. The scene in there, the grinning corpses sitting around the conference table, made his skin crawl and his teeth ache.

Sam looked miserable. "She says we're too late. Says her master picked Dean because he's a good man…"

"We're too late? Hell, I'll be the judge of that," Bobby growled. "Does she know where Dean is or not? I've got a full ammo clip with her damn name on it she's lying to us."

Anya flattened her ears, made a soft huffing sound. She turned on her heels and padded off.

"I'd take that as a yes. Come on, boy. Let's go get your brother."

* * *

_I like this country,_ the Dad thing thought. It sat back against the wall, made sure that thick blood oozed from that bite in his arm. Not that Dean needed much incentive. They hadn't really attacked him, of course. They wouldn't have dared. Dean needed to _think_ that they had.

It sat back and watched as Dean circled around the surviving members of the old pack.

A shame about the others, but things had gotten boring. It had grown distant from them, even to the point where it had forgotten their names.

All except Anya, of course. She was extremely irritating, so it remembered _her_. She was from a different country from the rest, all too human at first, desperate to find a place where she belonged.

Dean lunged in, grabbed one of the slightly smaller females by the leg and snapped the bone in two. She collapsed to the floor, yelping and rolling around. Like the others, she was not used to being treated like this.

From the way Dean was moving, wide green eyes blazing, teeth snapping, she wouldn't have to suffer much treatment for long.

The alpha dog moved in just then, and when he and Dean collided the building seemed to shake. Pitch black fur against dark blond, dog against wolf. Dean raised up, closed his jaws on the soft thick underside of the dog's throat.

The alpha screamed out, and Dean didn't hesitate to rip his throat out.

The third dog backed away whining. He whimpered his apologies, but it was far too late. The dog turned to run and Dean leaped on him, broke his back with one quick snap of his jaws.

It was a good show. The Dad thing watched, pleased with itself. He could barely remember how it was back in the old country. He and his pack protected travelers back then. He was devout to the old ways, protected and nurtured all around him, but things changed. He'd gotten restless. Gotten bored, and it was time to explore the rest of the world. This was a different land, a wilder one. More open. Less protected.

Its name was _Wan-me _back then. It was _Wan-mei_ now, and _Wan-mei _was feeling restless again.

After this was over, they'd travel. It would allow Dean to become two legged again sometimes, if he wished it. The boy was a born wolf. He was magnificent. Such a fiercely protective one, and so eager to please. There was so much wildness inside him, so different and intoxicating, like the wolf form he'd chosen for himself, for example.

And Dean had chosen that for himself, there was no doubt of that. He just needed a little nudge to show his true self.

Wan-mei supposed it owed this John and Sam Winchester a debt.

Dean stood stiff-legged in the center of the carnage, his tail bushed out over his back, his ears flatted against his head. Wai-mei sighed. The others were coming; it could sense them, moving cautiously forward in the dark hallways just outside.

Time for the final act of this little drama.

It put its back to the wall, and slid up slowly on its feet. Dean ran over, and it could feel the relief Dean felt: _Dad's okay, he's alright. _

Dean remembered the silent punishment from before and he stood quivering, with his head down, his tail tucked between his legs, silently waiting for Dad to acknowledge him.

"I guess I'll keep you around after all," it rumbled in John Winchester's voice. It stared at what remained of the old pack and a quiet smile crossed its lips as it reached down, gave Dean's head and ears a rough pat. "Guess you're good for something."

Dean barked happily.

* * *

Bobby didn't know what to expect, but it sure in the hell wasn't _this_. Bobby stepped in first, raised the assault rifle as he switched it to full auto and pointed it.

_Revenant._ Had to be.

John Winchester stood there, just as dark and imposing as he'd ever been.

Bobby knew better. John Winchester was _dead_.

A wolf stood in front of the man, and as soon as Bobby saw the beast he knew it wasn't normal. The animal was twice as big as any wolf or dog Bobby had ever seen. It lowered its head, flattened its ears. The growl it made vibrated the air between them.

Bobby flicked a quick sideways glance, took in the rest of the room. Blood and guts smeared all over the floor over there. He saw black fur and what looked like dog remains. They were just as large as Anya. Big difference was they were dead. Ripped to pieces.

Sam stepped through the doorway, past Anya, and the John thing actually grinned a little when it saw Sam.

"Sam?" Bobby gritted out. "What the hell?"

The look in Sam's eyes hardened. "That's not Dad."

"I know that!"

The wolf took a step forward.

Bobby stared. Green eyes. Dark blond fur. _Oh Lord, no…_

Sam said it out loud first. "Don't, Bobby, don't. That's Dean."

* * *

Next chapter will be posted on Sunday, or sooner, if real life permits. I want to thank everyone for hanging in there with me on this fic. Will post the next chapters of _Fresh Meat_ and _Black Horse_ no later than Tuesday morning.


	9. the good son

_**POV: **_Wolf!Dean. There's a method to my madness.

* * *

_**Chapter 9 – the good son **_

_You're not gonna hurt my family any more. None of you sonsofbitches are._

Dean nearly laughed out loud when the older man aimed that assault rifle right between his eyes. _You're first, old man. _

"Don't make me shoot you, Dean," the man drawled softly. His hands were steady, but he smelled angry and sad at the same time.

_And how the hell does this bastard know my name?_ Dean narrowed his eyes. They smelled like hunters all right, smelled like gunpowder and salt and silver. Dad must know them from somewhere else. If they knew Dad, then they probably knew the names of his sons, too. No big deal.

Trucker Dude there with the assault rifle would be the first one to go, and then the younger one. He was freakishly tall, shaggy haired, with blue green eyes. He looked tired. He smelled sick. Fever smoldered just underneath the skin of his right arm. He didn't even bother to raise his own rifle up; he kept it down at his side, apparently forgotten.

The huge black dog crouched a few feet away was female. She was different from the others he'd killed. Younger, softer. Sadder somehow.

Didn't matter. She'd die just as quickly as the others had.

Dean took another step forward. He could dodge to the left or right, and then go straight in for the kill.

"Damn it, boy, I'm warning you," the older man snarled.

"Dean?" Dad said out loud, calmly, quietly. "Easy, now. Stop."

Dean stopped.

The younger hunter stepped in front of the older man, completely blocked his shot, and the man snapped the rifle up in a hurry as he stepped back. "Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

The black dog whined softly and the tall one motioned her to stay there.

_Sam?_ Dean laid his ears back. How fucking stupid did they think he _was_? _Sam_, huh? They weren't family. None of them were. Dean flicked a quick glance behind him.

Sammy was _there_, standing right where Dad had been. He looked so young and so small somehow, with his shoulders slightly hunched as he shouldered that heavy book bag of his. He'd stopped crying. That was something, at least. He was safe, and so was Dad.

Dean turned back around to face the hunters with a low growl rising in his throat.

"Not gonna let you hurt him, Bobby," this other "Sam" said slowly. He knelt down, laid the assault rifle on the floor. He wobbled a little because of the fever and that cast on his arm.

_Damn._ Dean pricked his ears up, tilted his head slightly to one side. _Dude's gonna go all dog whisperer on me, huh?_

"Dean?" the young man said quietly. His eyes were sad. He made direct eye contact, and he didn't look away, not even when Dean bared his teeth at him.

"Dean, it's me. Sam. I'm here. I'm right here. That's not Dad, Dean. Don't listen to him."

_Yeah. Right._ _This sonofabitch is crazy. _

"_I'm_ your brother. _I'm Sam_."

_No. You're not. You dumb bastard, you're not Sam._

Dean cocked his head to one side, stared at the long lean line of this one's throat. He imagined clamping his jaws around there, imagined feeling the dude's pulse race, quick and panicky, and then one quick pull of his jaws and blood would flow.

"Dean, please," the man said softly. "You gotta listen to me. You gotta fight this."

This wasn't what Dean expected, and it made him uneasy. This was quiet and calm and sadness, when he expected anger and cursing and violence. That look in this kid's eyes, like he _knew_ him, like he'd known Dean all his life….it was crazy.

"Your name's Dean Winchester."

Dean rolled his eyes. _Some loony bin somewhere is missing one at headcount. _

"Sam, I want you to back away from him now," the older hunter said from behind. He didn't have a clear shot because the younger one kept moving from side to side, blocking him.

"Sam" ignored him. "Dean, listen to me. You were born on January 24, 1979, in Lawrence, Kansas. Our parents are Mary and John Winchester ---"

Dean growled, low and deep. _Don't wanna hear those names comin' out of your damn mouth._

"I don't know who that is standing over there. I don't know what he did to you, Dean." The boy raised his left hand up slowly, palm up, and Dean bristled, even though the hand was empty. "You took care of me while Dad went hunting. You were with me all the time. You gave up stuff for me. You went out and stole Christmas presents for me back in 1991. One of them was a damn Barbie doll, remember? I gave you the amulet that year. I got it from Bobby, and it was for Dad, but he wasn't there. I wanted you to have it."

None of this made any sense. Dean listened, but Dad's voice was the only voice he wanted to hear. There was a buzzing inside his head, and he couldn't think and he didn't want to remember anything but what Dad told him.

"You love heavy metal and hard rock music. I used to bitch at you because you had cassette tapes in the Impala. Dude, nobody uses them anymore." This "Sam" laughed, and the sound was sad and wistful. "The Impala's your girl. Your car. Dad gave it to you. Our Dad, not that…that thing over there. You always talk about her like she's alive, tells me all the time that I don't understand her the way you do. When I'd bitch about the music you used to tell me that driver calls the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole. Do you remember, Dean?" The tone of not/Sam's voice changed, it was pleading, almost begging, and it made Dean feel uneasy. "You're human. You're my big brother. It's me. It's _Sam._ Dean, please ---"

"Dean?" Dad said softly. Dean pricked his ears. "Come here, son."

Dean wheeled around and started walking.

"You used to tell me that nothing bad was gonna happen to me, not while you were around," the young hunter blurted out. "Remember? I had those visions because of that damn demon, I'd have headaches so bad I couldn't walk, couldn't see straight. You never left me. Not once."

Dean stopped halfway back, turned and glanced over his shoulder at the man.

"You took care of me all those years, and the one time it was my turn I screwed it up. Screwed it up big-time. Dad's dead. Dean. He made the deal because he loved you, okay? Whatever this thing is, it's not Dad. It's not."

Dean huffed to himself. _Yep. Dude's crazy as a shithouse rat._

He padded over and sat down in front of Dad.

"He doesn't belong to you," the younger one snarled as he stood up again. He was pissed, really pissed, and Dean didn't know why.

"It's over. It's done." Dad said to the men. "Leave. Now."

"He's my brother," the shaggy one said. "You can't have him."

"What he was before doesn't matter," Dad rumbled to the men. Dean didn't pay any attention to that. Probably something that happened when he wasn't around. He didn't need to think about that. Dad stepped right beside him and Dean put one paw on Dad's boot, leaned against him.

He saw the stricken look on the young one's face, saw the way the older hunter's mouth thinned out into a hard line. Whatever was going on, it was just talk. Dad was here. Dad hadn't ditched him. Dad _needed _him. That was all Dean ever wanted.

He ignored the rest.

"You never appreciated him, Samuel. Not really. It's a shame that a shapeshifter clothed in your brother's fine skin had to remind you that Dean has many fine qualities. And he does."

Dad stroked Dean's head and ears roughly; Dean eagerly leaned into the touch. The words being spoken didn't matter to him anymore. He watched, and he waited for Dad to tell him what to do next.

"He raised you. He even bled for you. And you leave him every chance you get, don't you? Every time. I won't leave him." Dad smiled down at Dean as he looked up, grinning happily."He knows I won't."

"You get your damn hands off my brother ---" The younger hunter took a step forward. Dean lowered his head and stared at him, a low, deep growl rising in this throat.

"You really want him back now? After what he's done tonight? He's killed innocents for me."

The black dog made a low groaning sound.

"I don't believe you."

"Really?" Dad smiled. "You'll see. Go down the next hallway. Go on, Samuel. Take a good look at what your big brother is truly capable of. He didn't flinch. He didn't hesitate." Dean didn't even bother to prick his ears at the change in Dad's voice. It sounded familiar, deep and rough at the same time, whiskey smooth, but he didn't care. "For you and Dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill, it just scares me sometimes."

It was just noise. That's all. Just noise.

The young man looked startled.

"Remember that, boy?" Dad smiled. "I know you do."

"You sonofabitch, you can't have him."

"Hell with this," Trucker Dude's eyes narrowed as his finger slid around the trigger.

Dean's eyes widened. _Son of a bitch, _Dean thought frantically. _No ---_

He was on his feet in less than a heartbeat, growling, roaring, as he lunged forward. He could hear Dad behind him, calling him back, but it was too late.

Everything else was drowned out by the sharp crack of the gunshots.

* * *

A/N: Yes…it's a cliffie. Aw, c'mon, you should know me by now! Next post? Saturday.


	10. what runs in the blood

_**Chapter 10 - what runs in the blood**_

* * *

There was no time for Sam to explain, no time to do anything but move, and hope that he survived later to explain and apologize.

Sam turned, slammed his right shoulder hard against Bobby's chest, felt the sharp exhale of air as the older man took the blow. Bobby cursed as his shots went wide, stitched a pattern on the far wall that just missed that bastard wearing John Winchester's form. Sam took another look, just to make sure.

The thing bellowed at Dean, it was yelling, trying to call him back. Sam wasn't sure, but he thought he caught a glimmer of fear in those fake hazel eyes.

_Good._

Dean charged right at them, snarling and growling. His ruff bushed out thick and wild around his shoulders. His ears laid flat against his head, and death was in his eyes.

_Oh God, _Sam thought,_ I hope this works._

Bobby stumbled backwards, and Sam hit him again, harder this time, threw his greater height and weight into the blow. Bobby went sprawling backwards just as Anya jumped into Dean's path.

Dean rammed into the black dog, sunk his jaws into the side of her neck and shook her like she was a rag doll. After he ravaged her throat he snapped at her front forelegs. Bone snapped and blood flew, and as soon as she was down Dean seemed to immediately forget about her.

He only had eyes for Bobby. Sam recognized that look in Dean's eyes; he'd seen that same intense gunsight of a gaze on too many hunts, saw how Dean handled multiple threats, smoothly, without effort.

Now Dean switched focus. Since Sam stood between him and Bobby, Sam was _next_.

Dean slammed into him, and they both fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Dean was on top, just as solid and muscular as he'd ever been when he was two legged. Sam hit the floor on his ass with a solid thump that traveled all the way up his spine and made his tailbone ache.

Sometimes, when things went south, Sam's mind latched onto small details. He never did know why. As he fell back he saw a bit of bronze metal nestled in Dean's fur, about chest level.

_Amulet,_ Sam thought dazedly as he stared at the little screaming metal face. _Bastard gave him an amulet to wear. _

"Damn it, Sam---" Bobby cursed. The hair at the back of his neck rose up. He could feel the nuzzle of Bobby's assault rifle tracking up his back.

Towards Dean.

Sam put his right arm up to block as Dean lunged for his throat. Dean's eyes were glowing now, a peculiar bright golden green color. Sam barely felt it when Dean clamped his jaws around the cast. It was an awkward fit, but Dean managed to open his jaws wide enough just fine.

_Shit. Shit!_ Sam bulled his way upright, braced himself on the floor with his left arm, flexed his shoulders, made himself as wide as he could to block Bobby's shot.

Dean pushed and snarled against him. He rabbit kicked with both hind legs against Sam's belly, tore long slash marks into Sam's jacket and shirt with his nails. He wanted Sam's throat, but any part he could reach on the way would do. It was a typical Dean Winchester move, take the action in close and see how his opponent handled it. That much hadn't changed about him.

Something dark flicked in Dean's eyes. His eyes went to slits as he sunk his teeth deeper into the cast, shook his head from side to side in a sawing motion.

Sam screamed.

He could hear it when his bones snapped again, heard this bright, quick sound, and a part of his mind, the still calm, rational part, untouched by the pain thought, _Okay now, adult gray wolves have a bite of 10,000 pounds per square inch, and Dean's a lot bigger than that. Huh. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, hotshot._

Too late now.

It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, a white hot flare of pain that sizzled the air around him.

Even so, there was a moment of disconnect. Dean looked almost…well, _happy_. His eyes were half closed, and Sam could almost believe that Dean was somebody's pet in a sunlit backyard somewhere, contentedly playing with his favorite chew toy.

Dean shook his head back and forth, and now Sam's arm was looking frayed around the edges, plaster flew up in chunks and something warm and dark and salty splashed against Sam's chin.

_Please,_ Sam nearly moaned aloud. _Please let this work. Please. _

Dean tightened his grip even more, and the pain made Sam's back arch. He bellowed out his pain and fear, and the Dad thing quietly knelt down and watched.

Dean's eyes widened in shock, and in that instant Sam _knew_.

* * *

Dean blinked. He was two legged again.

"_Your, uh, half-caf, double vanilla latte is gettin' cold over here, Francis." _

Now four.

…_pleasepleaseplease…_

The woman's name was Leslie. He could taste her.

Leslie Hardy. He remembered that now.

She screamed and cried, begged for her life.

Dean remembered smiling as he ripped her apart.

_"You think Sammy's old enough to play football yet, Champ?"_

_"No, Daddy," four year old Dean announced solemnly. "He's too small."_

He was bigger then, older, taller, and he leaned against the Impala. Life was _good_. Sam was here, and they were on the road again.

"_Well, what exactly do you tell 'em? You know, about where you've been, what you've been doin'?" _

In real time, Dean staggered backwards, all four legs wobbly, his mouth filled with salt and copper. His head filled with this angry buzzing sound, and it threatened to put him down on his knees.

_"I tell 'em I'm on a road trip with my big brother. I tell 'em I needed some time off after Jess."_

"_Oh, so you lie to 'em." _

_"No. I just don't tell 'em....everything." _

_"Yeah, that's called lying. I mean, hey, man, I get it, tellin' the truth is far worse."_

Dean was _tasting_ Sam.

He was tasting his brother's blood. His mouth was full with it, it dripped down his muzzle onto his chest. He stood there, stiff legged, shaking. _No. No…Sam…_

He must have whined out loud or something, because incredibly enough, despite the way his arm looked Sam had this slightly loopy smile on his face, and Dean didn't know why.

"Hey, Dean…" Sam whispered hoarsely. He struggled to sit upright, cradled his arm to his side. Bobby came over and kneeled next to him. Sam was pale, splattered with blood.

_No._ Dean shook his head as he backed up. _I couldn't…I didn't…_

The Dad thing sighed as it stood up. "Well, Samuel," it rumbled out loud. "Clever boy."

Bobby raised up on one knee, aimed, and fired several rounds at it. The thing laughed.

"Doesn't matter." It motioned almost lazily at the bloody holes in its chest. They closed up almost immediately. Wang-mei stared at Dean fondly, like a man admiring his pet, his possession, and that set Sam's teeth on edge, despite the haze of pain that surrounded him. "He still belongs to me. I'll just have to make some changes inside him, that's all."

Dean didn't react to the gunshots. He was frozen in place, swamped by the sounds and images that surged behind his eyes.

Hands grabbed at his fur, he tasted skin slick with blood and fear and sweat.

Trucker Dude…

_No. Oh God, no…_

Harlan Gates was his name.

Dean could smell sickness in him, creeping through his skin, the early stages of prostate cancer. He was a long haul trucker out of Dallas, Texas. He thought about home as Dean ripped into him, wondered whether his wife would be able to manage things without him.

_No_, Dean thought_. No._ He shook his head with each backward step he took. His tail was hung limp between his legs, and he moaned, low and rough and desperate.

_Killed 'em…killed 'em both…_

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you."_

…_and I nearly killed Sam…_

_No._

_Nooooo...._

Dean threw back his head and howled.

Wang-mei laughed.

Dean turned in the direction of that voice. His lips skinned back from his teeth. A ripple ran through his body, from the top of his head to the tip of his tail.

_Son of a bitch, I'll fucking kill you ---_

"Seriously?" Wang-mei rumbled with amusement. "And what just happened to make you think things had changed in your favor, Dean?"

Dean was less than two feet away when the amulet strung around his neck began to glow. His heart skittered sideways like a frightened foal. He felt it then, a screeching sound that pierced his muscles through and through, scrambled his nerves. Dean stumbled as his legs gave out on him. He couldn't breathe, he jerked and shuddered. There was smoke in the air all around him, scrid, smelled like singed fur and flesh, and it took him several seconds to realize that what was burning was him.

"That's much better," Wang mei purred. Its face shifted now, from John Winchester, then melting and shifting into a flat surface that shone like a mirror. Then the mirror darkened as double sets of fangs and bulging eyes pushed through the surface. Streamers of dark and light snapped through the air like banners in a high wind.

Dean lay on his side, panting weakly. His legs paddled restlessly but all he could do was snarl weakly. Wang-mei bent over and dug his fingers into the thick fur at the back of his neck. Dean struggled, but his fur retreated inside him as he was lifted up. He was two legged and broken again, and it stared at him in wonder.

"You broke yourself," Wang-mei wondered aloud. It lowered him back down onto the floor, almost as gently as Sam or Bobby would have.

It turned and looked at Sam and Bobby and chuckled. Both hands grew, turned into long, twisted black claws.

"Got some business to take care of," it said, sounding so much like John Winchester it made Dean's heart ache. "I'm not gonna leave you, Dean. Not now, not ever."

It looked at Anya and smiled. "Looks like you're good for something after all. You'll make a fine pair."

Bobby pulled Sam back, raised the assault rifle once more, probably for the last time in this life as the thing walked towards them.

* * *

_The more pets he has, the more powerful he becomes, _she whispered _softly. Even with one. I'm the last._

Bobby blinked in surprise at the other voice inside his head.

_I'm the anchor. Wang-mei will claim Dean again, and his link to this reality will double. Break the ties that bind him here. Kill me._

Sam could hear it too; Bobby could tell by the way the kid's eyes widened. He was awkward and half out of his head with pain and shock. But Sam was still younger, taller, and heavier. His only disadvantage was his broken right arm, and Bobby fought dirty, dug his fingers into Sam's arm and tried not to flinch as he felt bones shift in his grip.

"Bobby, you can't ---"

_Good-bye, Sam._

Anya struggled up, bleeding.

Bobby pointed the assault rifle and emptied the clip into her.

* * *

The Dad thing died howling.

Its mouth stretched open, impossibly wide. Every window in the place, even the glass panels in the doors, exploded outward in a spray of silver. Skin and clothes ran together, blurred into twisting, shifting ribbons of light and dark. The air boiled with gale force winds, packed into an impossibly tight space. The floor directly beneath cracked and darkened.

The noise and wind seemed to go on forever, and Sam crouched there. He ignored Bobby and everything else, ignored the way the air twisted and turned on itself until the snap of bright light at the end was so bright and so violent Sam closed his eyes against it.

Everything was quiet then. Just as quiet as Dean was, laying naked on his side a few feet away.

Sam opened his eyes, blinked away the double images he saw. He grit his teeth against the pain in his arm, as he stumbled forward to kneel by his brother.

"Dean, I'm here." Sam hissed as he pulled his jacket off. He covered Dean with it as best he could, as Bobby stood up warily. He popped another clip into the rifle, and waited for something else to show up.

Nothing did. There was only Anya's body, the scattered remains of the dogs.

And Dean.

Dean breathed. He took a great hitching breath of air when Sam covered him. His body was crisscrossed with long scratches and slashes and bite marks. Sam glanced at Dean's left arm, at the bone that stuck up through the pale freckled skin of his arm.

"Bu," Dean whispered roughly.

"What?"

"Dead," Dean croaked. "...should stay...dead..."

Sam looked up. "Bobby?"

The older man nodded grimly. "We're clear." He looked down at Anya's body, and his expression softened a little. "We better haul ass just in case."

"S-Sam-mm…"

"Dude, I'm here."

Dean's eyes opened, a slow, heavy blink. His lips moved. Sam heard the words, but he didn't believe what he was hearing. "What did you say?"

Dean sighed. He gathered himself, and this time his voice was a little louder. "…kill me…"

* * *

**A/N:** This is the beginning of the comfort phase. Bobby and Sam have their work cut out for them, because Dean doesn't believe he deserves comfort or mercy after what he did. Maximum Dean angst ahead.

Hope everyone is having a safe, wonderful holiday! I'm headed out of town on a surprise road trip. I will be back Tuesday and will post Fresh Meat and other updates then.


	11. blanked out

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**Chapter 11- blanked out**

_Please, Sam…please…_

"Dean, it's okay," Sam whispered roughly. "It's all right now." He was pale, splattered with blood and Dean couldn't fool himself that it was _his_ blood. It was Sam's.

_It's not all right, you fucking hear me, it's not all right..._

Bits of plaster mingled with Sam's skin and blood in Dean's mouth…

_Please. Please let this work…_

…Anya…

"_The people in the village hate me," Anya whispered softly in the blood-memory. "I don't belong here anymore," and she willingly took Wang-mei's hand. _

...and Harlan…

_No please no no no _

…and Leslie, all mixed together. Leslie's skin tasted like peach flavored hand lotion. Dean could still taste it, even through the blood.

Dean breathed, short, shallow chest hurt. There was this queer little shape burned into the center of his chest; he didn't have to see it to know it was there. The burn went all the way down to his core, spread out through his bones. It smoldered underneath his skin.

"…guh…"

_Gun. _

"What?"

_Sam, I'm beggin' you, please…_

"…gun…" Dean slurred. "…give me…gun…"

"Dean, we're safe. It's gone. Dead." Sam cradled what was left of the cast on his right arm to his side, and Dean couldn't look at it.

_He's not listening to me…why the fuck won't he listen to me…_

_Bu._

The word echoed all through him. _Bu. Dead._

Would have stayed that way too, if it hadn't been for Dad. John freakin' Winchester, _here I come to save your ass, Dean_ whether you want to be saved or not.

All he could do was lie there on the floor, curled up on his side with Sam's jacket thrown over him, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't what he wanted, not kind reassuring words or a jacket thrown over him to preserve what little dignity he fucking had left.

Dean blinked. There was something on the floor a few feet away, something metallic. Flat black metal.

Gun.

Sam's gun.

It was the gun that held Dean's attention, the promise of it.

Suicides go to hell. Dean had never heard Pastor Jim say that. There were extenuating circumstances of course. Killing yourself so that you wouldn't live like the things you hunt was something John and Dean had discussed. Sam never liked those conversations. Sam always got mad and left whenever the conversation came up.

This was different. This was atonement.

…_don't deserve to live after what I did…_

"Hold on a minute," Bobby said gruffly, and he stepped away, out of Dean's sight. He was behind them. Dean couldn't prick his ears like he could before, but he could just about track Bobby by sound. He didn't know if that was a part of the wolf still inside him, buried deep, or maybe it was just the adrenaline rush that was building up inside him.

Sam and Bobby wanted to save him, and Dean didn't want that.

Dean moved.

He ignored the pain in his right arm, the way the bones shifted as he pushed himself up. Dad taught them both to be ambidextrous, but Dean led with his right, out of habit. Didn't matter, none of that did.

Dean lashed out with his right leg, a good solid hit. Sam went sprawling, and Dean didn't need to look back, didn't want to.

"Dean? What?"

…_sorry…'m sorry…_

It was the gun he was after. That was all he had left. Sam was strong, he'd have a good life. . It was wrong to ask Sam to drop the hammer on him, wrong to put that kind of burden on the kid. Kid had the rest of his life to live normal, without his fucked up lost cause of a brother.

Dean heard John's voice inside his head, and it was really John this time, not some fucked up spirit: _If you want a job done right, you'd better do it yourself._

"Dean?" Sam got louder. He_ knew_.

Knew what Dean was going for.

It was like one of those dreams when everything was going in slow motion, like swimming through mud and nothing he did worked. His muscles were weak and sprung but he_ had_ to do this, he _wanted _to do this. It was only fair, only right, and they didn't get it, neither one of them did.

They didn't know how it felt to run on four legs, didn't realize that he liked it, it felt natural, it felt right, even with the taste of blood and flesh in his mouth.

Bobby came in from the left and his foot connected with the rifle, sent it skidding across the floor in the opposite direction. Dean still stretched out his left arm for it, his fingers brushed against the stock of the assault rifle, and then Sam was right on top of him, using his weight and height to push him down on the floor.

"Stop it, Dean! You hear me?" Sam yelled. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"..please..." Dean moaned, and damn, that was pathetic. Weak and pathetic. Maybe if he begged, then they'd see. If he bawled like a bitch, maybe then they'd listen…

The energy he felt moments before fizzled out, drained away just as quickly as it came. Sam pressed down on him even harder and the moment was past.

Sam was right there beside him, and Sam said his name like a mantra, over and over again. "Dean" didn't mean anything, and neither did "It's all right" and "We're safe now."

"S…sorry…" Dean whispered, and Sam looked honestly puzzled.

…_there's no forgiving what I did…Sam, please…._

A flapping noise split the air from behind. It wasn't the sound Dean was looking for: the slide of a clip of ammo being loaded, the click of a trigger being pulled back. He wouldn't hear the shot that killed him, because there wasn't going to _be_ any shot.

"Here," Bobby said, not unkindly. "Found this in the room next door. It's a little dusty. Let's cover him up right."

Sam moved a little, lifted up just enough, as if he thought Dean was going to turn over and fight. Dean just laid there. He was done. It was too much trouble to even keep his eyes open, so he closed them to the beating of his heart, echoing slow and heavy in his ears. Dean was like a black hole now. The world didn't pull away from him; he pulled back into himself, drifted back inside his skin and just laid there.

Something soft was pushed against Dean's skin. Felt like the air thickened all around him.

"Fireman's carry," Sam whispered roughly, and Dean wondered who he was talking to.

"Sam, wait a minute…"

"I got him, Bobby," Sam rumbled harshly "I got him."

Dean was lifted up and everything blurred together.

* * *

The place they took him to was bright white, filled with loud voices and the sound of machinery beeping and clicking. It smelled of alchol and disinfectant, sadness and wet blood. Dean heard words like "ICU" "sepsis" and "antibiotics" and none of it meant a damn thing. He didn't flinch when needles were slipped deep beneath his skin for the IVs, even though he hated needles with an absolute passion. The other piece of hospital equipment he hated was that damn nasal cannula, and, of course, his all time favorite, the catheter.

It was hard to keep track of things after a while. The drugs they pumped him full of before and after the surgery on his arm saw to that, and in a way it was kind of nice.

Not as nice as dying, but it was close.

* * *

Sam Winchester left Mercy General first, a week later.

His prognosis was good, the infection in his arm was easily handled by antibiotics. He wasn't as bad off as Dean, which was something to be said for either the cast on Sam's arm or just pure dumb luck. Sam remembered that wild yellow spark in Dean's eyes; he still shuddered a little at the feel of his brother's teeth in his skin. Sam liked to think he wasn't injured as badly due to the fact that Dean recognized him on some level.

Deep down inside, Sam knew that wasn't true.

"So," Bobby said slowly as they turned onto the street from Visitors Parking. "You were gonna feed your brother your arm and hope he recognized you from the blood in his mouth. That was your plan?"

Sam looked down at the cast on his right arm and smiled a little. "That was all I had."

Bobby reached out and cuffed Sam upside the head. "That was the dumbest plan I ever heard, boy."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Sam rubbed his head with his left hand, smirked a little.

Bobby softened a little. "Yeah. Yeah it did." He stared straight ahead.

"What about…what about the Ironworks?"

Bobby sighed. "Anderton Ironworks burned to the ground a couple of days ago. It was me and the Crawford brothers and a couple of other hunters who owe me. They'll keep their mouths shut."

"Anya?" Sam found it hard to say the name.

Bobby nodded. "Salted and burned with the rest." He drove in silence for some distance, then frowned and dug into the pocket of his vest without taking his eyes off the road. "Oh, here. We found this." He pulled something small out of his pocket and dropped it in Sam's outstretched hand.

Sam stared down at the small bronze face, rubbed the pad of his finger against the small horns. The face looked peaceful, serene.

It was Dean's amulet. The real one.

"Thanks, Bobby."

"No problem, kid," Bobby drawled.

There was something else hanging in the air over them. Sam could feel it.

Bobby sighed. "Sam, I don't know…" He shook his head. "We found two more bodies in one of those rooms. Two fresh ones. A man and a woman. They'd been ripped to pieces."

"_You really want him back now?" the Dad thing had said. "After what he's done tonight? He's killed innocents for me."_

Sam didn't say a word.

"Well, it might have been the black dogs." Bobby shrugged. "They could have done it instead."

"No," Sam said softly. "It was Dean. He asked me to kill him. I wouldn't do it. That's why he went for the gun."

Bobby blew out a breath. "Sorry, kid."

The silence in the car was heavy, somehow oppressive. "Bobby," Sam said slowly, "you weren't really gonna shoot Dean, were you?"

Bobby didn't say a word, and the silence deepened.

* * *

Dean drifted along, and when he woke up Sam was there most of the time.

Bobby was too.

Sam had this slightly wide-eyed look to him, like he was going to start crying but he was damned if he was going to do it in front of Dean. His eyes were red and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Sometimes he was gruesomely cheerful, talked about how he washed the Impala by hand, and what they were going to do when Dean got better.

Bobby just stared at Dean from underneath that trucker's cap of his. Bobby usually talked about racing his Chevelle against Dean's Impala, told him, "boy, you better get on your feet soon, cause my car's gonna blow the doors off your girl." Bobby expected Dean to answer him.

Dean never did.

The days blurred and melted into one long drugged out haze. He was moved, bathed, had his vitals checked, blood drawn, and Dean didn't complain. Not once. Nobody listened so Dean tuned everyone out. Sam didn't listen, and Bobby sure in the hell didn't. They gathered him up, took him away from that place, like he was human, like he deserved to be saved, instead of putting a doubletap in his head and doing a salt and burn on what was left.

His right arm felt funny. He could almost taste the metal pins they'd put in there.

* * *

Fingers carded through the hair over his forehead. It was a light touch, warm and playful.

Dean opened his eyes. All he knew was he was alive, breathing, in bed, and it was peaceful and quiet. He looked up at the person leaning over his bed, and his breath stuttered in his throat.

It was Wang Mei, eyes bulging, all bloody fangs and torn flesh.

It was Dad, wearing blood-stained denim, hollow-eyed and sad.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Dean. Not now, not ever."

Dean screamed the word _No_ over and over again, like it meant something, like somebody was listening to him in the first place.

Nobody was.

They sedated him even more then, strapped him down to the bed and shot him full of happy juice.

That part wasn't so bad.

* * *

As good as the drugs were nothing could blunt the screaming. Leslie and Harlan made themselves heard, even in his dreams. Dean as wolf was there, grinning, cheerfully ferocious. He was one happy pup when Dad let him off his leash.

Anya didn't say much, and Dean was grateful for that. Some days the drugs were so good Dean couldn't even remember his own name.

Those were damn good days.

The hospital shrink came by not long after that. "Good morning, Mr. Sambora. I'm Doctor McCall. Can I call you Richard? How are we feeling today?"

Dean just stared at the man.

"_We" are Richard Sambora, _Dean thought dryly._ Ritchie Sambora._ _Fuck. Thanks a lot, Sam._

Dean cleared his throat. "Fine," he whispered hoarsely. His throat was scratchy. The doc was most accommodating. He poured out water from the jug on the meal tray and held it to Dean's lips.

Dean took a couple of sips, then nodded and laid back against the pillows. It was time to play the game. He schooled his features into what he thought was a good mask, kind of tired and weary, and yeah, sick, but normal. Normal above everything else. He was in a hospital, after all.

Doc McCall watched Dean like a hawk.

"Do you feel like you want to hurt yourself?"

"No," Dean lied.

"Could you tell me what you dream about?"

Dean shrugged. "Dogs. Teeth."

That wasn't exactly a lie.

McCall nodded. "Well, that's perfectly understandable, considering that you and your brother were attacked by dogs."

Dean nodded. _Jackass, you don't know the half of it. I was the lead dog. _

A few more minutes, and the psych review was complete. McCall excused himself and left, and a couple of hours later the restraints were taken off.

That got Dean to thinking, which was never a good thing.

He knew all kinds of ways to kill himself. None of it was as certain as a gun muzzle pushed into his mouth, or one long deep cut down the inside of his arm. This wasn't the place for that. He could steal meds, try to overdose on them, but that punishment really didn't seem to fit the crime. Besides, that might not even work, and the idea of surviving, brain-damaged and slobbering all over himself, pissing on himself while Sam and Bobby cared for him, well, hell, that idea really didn't appeal to him.

Not one damn bit.

An air bubble in his IV?

Too damn peaceful.

Dean saw it then, and everything was clear enough. He had to play the game, get the hell out of there first.

After that? He had work to do.

* * *

**TBC next week. It's Sam and Bobby versus Dean. Round one. **


	12. best laid plans

_**A/N: T**_his is NOT a death fic, so please don't let the notion of Dean committing suicide spook you. It's Dean versus Bobby and Sam, with a whole lotta ansgt and worry and comfort mixed in.

* * *

_**Chapter 12 – best laid plans**_

"Dad, please…"

_She hurt me, Dean. Thought I could handle it. Thought wrong. _

"I don't want to, I don't…"

_I woke up and he was right on top of me…_

"Sam, I…I can't…"

_You don't want to protect us anymore, Dean? Is that it? _

"Dad, please, no…" Dean heard himself moan.

_You're going to let your family get hurt like this? Going to let these sonsabitches get away with this?_

"Don't make me hurt anybody else. Sam, please…"

"Dean?"

_Come, beauty. Change for me._

"Not again…please, not again…" His teeth sharpened into points. Dark blond fur exploded out of the pores of his skin as the base of his spine lengthened, as his tail exploded outwards.

…_dead…_

Dean flailed out with his arms and legs. He couldn't see. The world was a blur around him, a smear of muddy grey and bloody red, and he jerked back, startled, as fingers came out of the gloom, slid around his left wrist.

…_shoulda stayed dead…_

His left arm hurt, right inside his elbow, and his right was weighed down by tiny pinpricks of pain that travelled down his nerve endings. Another larger pain jolted up his spine as his legs bucked upwards and both knees bumped up against the underside of something hard and solid.

"Dean!"

He tasted Leslie Hardy. His mouth flooded with peach flavored hand lotion and blood.

Dean pawed wildly, clumsily at his face, groaned aloud, rough and desperate, as his fingertips slid off slick plastic, something long and rope-like, tangled up over his ears, across his face ---

Harlan Gates, the Trucker Dude. He was tired. Tired and worn out from all those miles on the road.

Dean could taste him.

"Dean, listen to me---" Dad's voice changed into Sam's voice, just like it had before, and Dean cringed as the fingers tightened around his wrist.

…_you're not Sam, you're not my Dad…_

"Open your eyes, Dean!"

"...get off me, damn you, get off…"

"Come on, dude, don't do this! Dean, wake up!"

His eyelashes felt sticky, glued together, and he could have sworn he actually heard a slight unzipping sound as he opened his eyes. Fuck, his face was wet. He inhaled noisily, tried to bring up his right hand to wipe at his face. His arm felt stiff, heavy, wounded somehow.

"Dean? Dean, it's okay. You're all right."

Dean blinked, and then stared.

_Sam_. Please God, it was _Sam_.

"Sam?"

"It's me. It's me. Hold on, let me get that."

_That?_ Dean frowned. His eyes weren't cooperating. Everything was still too damn fuzzy. _What the hell was he talking about?_

Dean flinched backwards into the pillows as something brushed against the tops of his ears, the tip of his nose.

"Sorry. Sorry," Sam muttered. Dean breathed in as something pushed against his upper lip. What the hell was Sam doing? Felt like he was trying to stick soda straws up Dean's nose. He growled and weakly batted at Sam's offending hand. About that time Dean's sight decided to come back, in sharp focus.

"Easy. Easy," Sam whispered softly. "Take it easy, bro'. They've got you hooked up to a heart monitor." Sam nodded towards the infernal device, over to Dean's right. Dean was too tired to glance in that direction; all he could do was nod tiredly. The air he breathed in smelled kind of funny.

He hadn't felt this bad before…had he? Dean was pretty damn sure he hadn't. He was hooked up again. Heart monitor, IV, cannula, and oh yeah, his favorite piece of hospital equipment: a damn catheter and more tubing and a plastic bag he could piss in.

Well, ain't life grand.

He'd been here how long? A week, maybe two? He'd been making progress, coming along just fine. And now this. Two steps forward, four steps back. Dad liked to say that setbacks build character. Uh huh. Yeah. Dean loved him, but Dad was full of it sometimes.

"…feels like…somebody turned up…heat…" Dean muttered. He looked down at his left arm, and right there inside his elbow was a white X of surgical tape, holding the IV in his arm. He looked up, jerkily, followed the line of tubing up with his eyes, and yep, there was another one of those damn IV bags hung on a steel stand. The bag was filled with stuff that looked like sour lemonade.

He was tethered by his left arm, and his right arm looked like hell. The skin was bluish purple along the metal staples. Looked like Hannibal Lector had been playing chutes and ladders with a scalpel. Dean stared at his arm, wondered how much force it would take to unzip the incision, open it up again.

That was something he'd have to find out about. Later, after he dropped this place like a bad habit.

"You had a relapse. They had to switch antibiotics because the first course wasn't working," Sam whispered. "Breathe, dude. Breathe. Can you do that for me?"

" 'kay…'kay…" Dean nodded again, wide-eyed. He inhaled a great stuttering gulp of air that burned down his throat. His chest hurt, a deep heavy ache, his ribs tight over his heart. Sam nodded, just as one of the nurses from the nurses' station stepped inside the room.

Her name tag said _Cheryl_. Sam made eye contact with her, and he smiled as he reached out and took one cup from the small stack of foam cups on the meal tray. "He needs some water."

"You okay, Mr. Sambora?" Cheryl didn't look convinced that everything was okey dokey.

"Right as rain, darlin'," Dean whispered hoarsely. He looked at her, lifted his hand in a fairly weak handflap and winked slyly. The smile he gave her was a mere shadow of his usual bright, blinding grin. Cheryl was old enough to be his mother, and she certainly wasn't what Dean would consider "hot" but she could certainly appreciate the gesture.

She smiled. She took Dean's pulse, studied his face, neck and arms. His skin seemed a little flushed, but it was nothing out of the ordinary.

"We've got you on a different antibiotic, something a little stronger to knock that pesky infection out." She fluffed his pillows up. "Doctor Graham will be by in another hour or so. You need to stay hydrated, drink a lot of fluids."

Dean nodded. He reached out for the foam cup on the meal tray; his fingers shook. Sam pretended not to notice. Dean's scowl deepened as Sam lifted up the plastic water carafe and poured out half a cup of water. Dean shakily raised the cup to his lips.

The water was still cool, sweet tasting somehow. Dean took another sip. He was doing okay until he lowered the cup and got a pretty good look of Sam's cast.

There was no blood or gore, just smooth white plaster, from Sam's wrist down to his elbow. The sight of the thing made Dean's gore rise up.

The taste of blood – _Sam's blood_ – rose up in Dean's mouth, bitter and slick with copper. Dean could swear he tasted bits of plaster and gauze in his mouth and between his teeth. He remembered the way Sam's muscles bunched up as he sunk his teeth into Sam's arm. Dean heard Sam's bones snap, bright and quick and brittle.

Maybe it was a good thing that he hadn't had much to eat for the last couple of days, because what little he had eaten decided to make an appearance.

Dean leaned forward. Sam was suddenly holding a bedpan right _there_, right in front of him.

_Hate this shit. Hate it,_ Dean thought to himself. Sam laid his hand gently on the small of Dean's back, moved his hand in slow, gentle circles, just like Dean had done when Sam was sick, or wake and shaking, scared from nightmares. _That_ was the natural order of things. Him taking care of Sam, not the other way around. The natural order of things was fucked all to hell, ever since Dean heard that child scream that night and pulled the Impala over to the shoulder of the highway to investigate. Those things at the Ironworks had his number, all right, knew just what it took to lure him up that hillside.

His head was a helium balloon, light and wobbly, that bumped against his shoulders. Every muscle in his body shook tiredly, a small ripple along his nerve endings that reminded him how weak he was.

_Three steps back, Deano,_ this voice piped up cheerfully inside his head. It sounded like Mickey Mouse.

_Fuck you_, Dean thought tiredly.

Maybe he'd been lying there in bed sleeping and the nursing staff left the television on. Maybe that was how the Mouse got inside his head.

Cheryl stood by, watching carefully. He'd forgotten about her, forgotten she was even there, and for a brief moment Dean felt a thrill of panic crawl its way up his spine. He felt lightheaded, out of control. They weren't gonna tie him back down just because he hurled, were they?

Dean tried to keep the panic out of his eyes, didn't want Cheryl or Sam to see when he sat up. He fell back against the pillow and closed his eyes with a disgusted sigh. His throat was raw.

"I can ask the doctor to give you something for nausea," Cheryl said, not unkindly, and Christ, there it was, that tinge of pity in her voice that made Dean's skin crawl.

" 'm good," Dean muttered. "Just went down the wrong pipe anyway."

Less than give minutes later the used bedpan was switched out for a clean one, and Dean laid back on his pillows, very pointedly staring off into space, at anywhere Sam wasn't.

"How long…how long you been here?" Dean croaked.

"Couple of hours," Sam shrugged. He closed the magazine he'd snagged from somewhere, sat back in his chair at the foot of the bed.

_Oh hell, no,_ Dean thought. _Don't get comfortable, bro'._ "You don't have to stay."

Sam got up.

_Huh. That was easy. _Dean blinked._ Good. Go…_

Sam picked up his chair and put it right by Dean's bed, on the left, closer to the foot of the bed.

_Son of a bitch…_

Sam reached down and wordlessly commandeered the remote from the meal tray. He sat down, quirked an eyebrow at his brother as he hit the remote. "Soap operas or wresting? Your choice, dude. I'm not going anywhere," Sam said with a smile. "Not until visiting hours are over, and maybe not even then."

_Damn._ Dean tried not to roll his eyes. "Surprise me."

Sam hit the button and WWE Wrestling came on. Batista was pounding the hell out of some slightly smaller dude who was clearly cannon fodder.

Dean stared at the screen, but he didn't see a thing.

Yeah, he could unhook himself from all the crap they had attached to him, and then sneak out. He'd done it before, in other states, other hospitals. Problem was, he really _did _feel like crap warmed over. And besides that, he wasn't equipped to do the job he wanted, no the job he had to do.

Didn't have any credit cards with him. Needed to get to the Impala, get his fake IDs out of the cigar box, get some of the other stuff he needed out of the trunk. He had things to do on the outside before he took care of himself, permanently. That was gonna be harder now. Bobby and Sam weren't stupid. They saw what he did, realized what him going for that gun back in the factory really meant. This damn setback meant that they had time to get ready for him.

Time to try to stop him.

Dean sighed, and his eyes refocused just in time to stare at some scantily clad WWE Diva. She was hot, all right, big hazel eyes, a full pouty mouth, smooth and sleek like some auburn haired cat. She wore a barely there costume made of three triangles of green fabric as she lounged on the sand on that beach, and she didn't do a thing for him. Nada. Zilch.

_Crap._

He was lost inside himself then, deep in thought, as he considered the angles, thought about the things he'd have to do to make this work, so he could pay this debt he owed.

Okay then. Plan B.

* * *

Sam knew the look.

Yeah. Dean was up to something, all right.

He very pointedly refused to look at Sam below the neck. Looking at Sam's cast had set off that coughing attack; it wasn't connected to the antibiotic. Sam knew that.

And he was pretty damn sure that Dean _knew_ that _he_ knew.

Sam sat there, and he pretended to watch the television, and all the while he kept an eye on Dean. He was still pale, and the skin underneath Dean's eyes had darkened slightly, but his color was better than it had been, despite the relapse with the infection. Sam had already tracked down Dr. Graham in the hallway. Rakshashas and vengeful spirits didn't even make Sam take a step back; getting information from one slightly harried, annoyed doctor was no problem.

Once this course of antibiotics worked, Dean was due for some physical therapy, and then he'd be discharged. Be another ten days or so.

Perfect.

According to Anya, Dean had been singled out because he was a good man. If Sam could have resurrected Wang-Mei from whatever hell he'd dropped into, Sam would have brought the bastard back and killed him over and over again, slowly, painfully, for targeting his brother, and for making Anya sacrifice herself like that.

Dean had killed two innocents while he was wolf. There was no such thing as a free pass for something like that in Dean's mind. He wouldn't say, "Well, it wasn't my fault," which sounded weak, but it was the truth: it _wasn't _his fault. Sam knew the way Dean's mind worked, and he knew that the "not my fault" argument didn't even enter into any of this. Sam knew Dean's line of reasoning all too well. He'd heard it before, after hunts that had gone bad: "I should have been faster. I should have checked this out first."

It didn't matter that Sam was right there, hunting beside him. Dean shared credit for a successful hunt; when things went bad it was his fault and his alone. He could've killed himself in the hospital any number of ways: an air bubble in his IV, a stolen knife or a syringe. It was obvious that Dean had something more in mind than just simply killing himself.

Sam's cell phone vibrated, and Dean didn't even glance over as Sam pulled it out.

"Hey, Bobby."

"How's that idjit brother of yours?"

"He's fine."

"Damn well better be," Bobby rumbled. "Never thought I'd see the day when I had to Dean Winchester proof my place. Live long enough you'll see anything, I guess."

Sam nodded. "I guess."

"You put that protection amulet where I told you to?"

"No problem." Dean was asleep when Sam slipped it underneath his mattress. Normally that would have been a damn hard thing to do, sneaking around Dean like that, but the drugs he was on made him sleep more deeply than usual.

"Sam, this is gonna be some mighty tricky business." Bobby sighed. "Not gonna let Dean go without a fight. You know that."

"Yeah. I know. Thanks, Bobby." Sam glanced sideways. Dean stared up at the television, his fine features curiously blank, almost mask-like. Sam could almost hear the wheels turning in Dean's head.

Sam took a breath, settled back into the chair. _Let the games begin._


	13. the things I do, for you and Dad

_**A/N:**_ Well, Unholy Muse wanted to see more of Wolf!Dean, so he's back. Kinda. A little more hospital angst, boys and girls, and then we go to Bobby's. That deserves a chapter all its own.

* * *

_**Chapter 13 – the things I do, for you and Dad, it scares me sometimes**_

It was peaceful for once. Nothing but tall trees in all directions, rolling hills, blue skies and gentle breezes.

He should have known it wasn't going to last.

_Well?_

Dean drew the Desert Eagle from his back waistband. He raised it in a two handed grip as he turned. _Son of a bitch ---_

The wolf looked bored. It sat on top of the tree stump at the edge of the road about eight feet away. The gun didn't seem to concern it at all; the corners of its muzzle turned up in a smirk.

"Get out of my fucking head, you hear me?" Dean grated out. "Get out of my dreams."

_Can't do that._ It yawned and laid down on its belly, forepaws crossed. _Always been here. Not going anywhere. _It gave a casual shrug of those massive shoulders._ Everyone leaves us. You know that. _

The damn thing was huge, dark blond fur, sharp white teeth, barrel chested, and those startling wide green eyes. No normal wolf had ever walked the earth looking like that. Was this was the way he looked to Leslie Hardy, to Harlan Gates, _to Sam_ as he clamped down on them with his jaws, sunk his teeth into them?

"Damn you, they were innocent people ---"

_So? _The damn thing actually rolled its eyes.

"So?"

_Bloody Mary. Your eyes bled that time. Sam didn't ask. You didn't tell him. _WolfDean grinned a little._ Wonder why?_

"That's not the same…"

_Yeah? It's not? Person we killed was somebody's son, somebody's brother._ _Tried to kill us, got killed instead. Didn't hear you crying about that one. I sure in the hell didn't. _They stared at each other for a long moment.

Then:_ That why you hate me so much?_

Dean's gun suddenly felt so damn heavy, too heavy to lift. He lowered it, shook his head. "I can't…I can't live like this."

_Like this? Like what? Wang Mei didn't put anything inside you. He brought what was inside out. Me._ It narrowed its eyes. _Lost Mom. Lost Dad._ _Tired of losing. Those two we killed? They hurt our pack._

Dean sputtered. "They didn't…we were mind fucked, you stupid bastard. Don't you get it?"

_Doesn't matter. Do it all over again if I had to. _

"You son of a bitch. They didn't deserve what we did to them."

The wolf was unimpressed.

"We nearly killed Sam."

_Sam's doing better than you are. Got patched up and he's out of this place. Like we should be._

Dean took a step back. He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl as he raised the gun and aimed right between the wolf's eyes.

It huffed. _If it'll make you feel better, Princess, knock yourself out. _

Dean pulled the trigger.

* * *

At least he didn't wake up screaming this time.

Dean was suddenly aware that he wasn't alone. He heard a cough, a polite one, like "Uh, I'm here." He opened his eyes, blinked at the man in the grey suit who stood fidgeting at the foot of his bed.

"Who…who the hell are you?" Dean said hoarsely.

"Ah, Mr. Sambora, I just wanted to ask you some questions about that dog attack, the night you were hurt."

_Dog attack? Okay, Sparky. If you say so._

"I'm Detective Harry Callahan." Dude reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out a thin brown wallet, and flipped his tin at Dean, smooth as silk.

Dean blinked. _Callahan, huh?_ He made the connection in less than a heartbeat. _Dirty Harry. _

The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood straight up.

_Fuck. _

Dude was a _hunter_.

Ruddy complexion, white crew cut. He worse the suit well, but Dean had the impression that he was more at home wearing denim. Heavyset, body probably halfway gone to fat but he could still handle himself. Judging from that slight bulge underneath his suit jacket, he was packing, too. As it was, Dean just laid there and stared at the man, thought about all the times he and Sam had done that very same thing, suited up, pulled out the old fake IDs and went to the hospital to interview the survivors.

"Okay." Dean waited.

"Now, as I understand it, you and your brother were hitch-hiking, and these wild dogs attacked you on the shoulder of Interstate 9. Is that correct?"

Bobby and Sam were working the hell out of that cover story. Dean nodded.

"Is there anything at all you can tell me about the dogs?'

Dean shrugged. "Big. Black. Teeth." _Yeah they were really something until I turned wolf and killed them all. _

Detective Callahan reached inside his pocket and pulled out two small photographs. "I understand you and your brother were hitching for a couple of hours. Did you happen to see either of these two people while you were out there?"

Dean stared at the two photos, and his heart dropped somewhere down to the vicinity of his toes.

Leslie Hardy and Harlan Gates looked up at him, smiling, in happier times. Leslie's hair was browner than it had been, down around her shoulders. She looked younger somehow. Harlan looked at the camera and was frozen in eternity with a slight smile on his face.

Dean's face went blank for a second, and the man's eyes narrowed.

"Who are they?" Dean said casually.

"The girl's Leslie Hardy. The man's name is Harlan Gates. We think maybe she was hitch-hiking that night too, maybe Gates picked her up past where you boys were. Maybe the dogs got them too, then zeroed in on you and your brother."

Dean shook his head. "Nope. Haven't seen them. They missing, too?"

Callahan nodded.

"Wish I could help you. Sorry."

There was a moment, crazy as it might seem, that Dean actually felt he could do it. Should do it. Maybe this was a sign, even though he didn't believe in signs and figured that the Dude Upstairs definitely had his name on the Eternal Shit List.

Still, why not? He felt he could sit up straighter in bed, stare ol' Dirty Harry in the eyes, and say, "That was me. I did it. I turned into a wolf and killed Leslie Hardy and Harlan Gates, and after I did that I tried to kill my own brother."

He'd have to come up with something that would convince Harry to start shooting. Sprout fangs or claws maybe, go all four legged and furry, and not in a good way, either. Maybe a flash of yellow in his eyes would do it.

He thought about it. It would save Sam and Bobby a lot of trouble, like they hadn't gone all out for him already. The thing was, though, he could hear John's voice inside his head, and this was _definitely_ Dad this time, not some Tibetan mind-fuck.

_It's your mess, Dean. Yours. You know what to do. _

Dean sat there and he stared at Callahan, and suddenly it didn't matter if this dude was actually a cop or another hunter nosing around. He owned this ungodly mess. It was _his_ to clean up.

Callahan paused as he slipped the photos back into his shirt pocket. "Well, then. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Sambora."

Dean nodded. _Not half as sorry as I am._

Detective Callahan left, and Dean waited. It was the longest one hundred twenty seconds he'd ever gone through. No catheter. They'd taken him off that damn heart monitor, too. He was finishing up the last bag of that lemonade looking antibiotic crap.

That meant he'd have to drag the friggin' metal stand in the can with him.

He threw off the covers and he wobbled as he scooted forward towards the edge of the bed. He nearly face planted when the soles of his feet pressed against that cool tile floor. It had been so long since he'd stood on his own two feet, and that was a fuckin' laugh, he had four of 'em for a while there.

The bathroom was miles away, and he couldn't move as quickly as he wanted to. He had to take it slow because he was pretty sure that damn hospital gown was gaping in the back, and that was bad enough and totally pathetic, hobbling across the floor trying to keep his ass from hanging out, all helpless and bare naked, holding onto that IV stand like he was eighty years old or something.

Dean's chest tightened up, and his hands shook as he closed the door behind him. His fingers shook, and that was the least of his worries. He had enough presence of mind to turn on the water in the face bowl, flip it on full force, before he sat down on the closed toilet lid.

He closed his eyes, but he could still see Leslie, all bright and shining and kind of mousy with that brown hair of hers, and he saw Harlan, and Harlan seemed like the kind of dude John and even Dean would have sat down one night to drink a beer with. All Dean could think of was _sorry_ _I'm sorry I'm so damn sorry,_ and that was pitiful too, and it wasn't enough, over and over again, like a broken fractured record, while his shoulders shook and his face got wet.

* * *

"Dean?"

Dean wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. _Sam. Shit._

_Shit!_

"Hey, Dean? You in there?"

Dean opened his eyes, leaned back on the seat, with one hand covering his nose and mouth. He sniffed noisily, hoped against hope that Sam wouldn't hear him snorting like that, but hell, Sam had ears like one of those bat eared foxes Dean had seen on Animal Planet. Not much got past him. Hell.

Dean cleared his throat. "Be out in a minute."

"Dude, you okay?"

He stood up, leaned down as he cupped his hand underneath the faucet and took a good deep drink. He splashed water on his face, and then leaned into the mirror, took a really good look. His eyes were red.

_Crap._

The best defense is a good offense.

"And why the hell wouldn't I be?" Dean practically snarled. _Jesus…_

Sam stood by the door as Dean opened it. Yeah, this was just fucking dandy; Dean bet he was quite a sight. He held the stupid ass hospital gown closed from behind with one hand while he rolled his IV stand with the other.

Sam stood there blinking, and the first thing he did was look Dean in the eyes.

Dean caught the look. Sam was emo.

Sam pitied him. And what Sam said next only made everything worse: "It's not your fault, Dean. It's not."

Dean laughed, and Sam flinched. The sound was bitter, mocking, full of sarcasm and anger and _You don't know shit about what you're talking about, Sam._ Dean didn't have to say it out loud. Sam got it.

"Wasn't my fault, huh? Well, could you explain that one to me, Sam?" Dean shook his head as he padded by. "I mean, you gotta enlighten me, bro'. 'cause I mean, I remember ripping into ol' Harlan and Leslie pretty good there." He laughed, and the sound was still too deep and a little rough, but it wasn't that unhealthy, bone rattling vibration from before.

Dean was back on the bed and slid under the covers, and he snarled a little when Sam made a move to help him. "Harlan Gates was his name. She was Leslie Hardy, and I just bet that Leslie was living the good life until she met me. I remember how she screamed and begged me not to kill her."

Dean shrugged.

"Didn't stop me. I killed her anyway. And Harlan? It felt good it felt to have his throat in my jaws, and I really got off on ripping his fucking throat open." Sam stopped and stared, eyes wide, his mouth unhinged a little. His shoulders slumped.

"I ever tell you that? No?" Dean said with mock innocence.

Sam just stared.

"Oh yeah," Dean nodded solemnly. "I felt him bleed out, watched him die, and just before he did I opened him up from his neck to his crotch and took out his heart." Dean back stared at Sam intently. "Not my fault, huh? Geez. Maybe I missed the memo on that one." He glanced down at Sam's cast and his eyes darkened for a second.

"I ripped _you_ up pretty good. Don't see how in the hell you forgot _that_," Dean added wonderingly.

"Dean," Sam muttered, and he couldn't help it, there was a mixture of revulsion and distaste there. "Why are hell are you talking like this?"

"Why not? Truth hurts, Sam. I killed them. Killed both of them. Are you that stupid you gonna ignore what I did to you, too?"

Sam straightened up. His eyes glinted, suddenly hard and cold. "You stupid, selfish sonofabitch," he whispered.

Sam turned around and left. Just like that.

_Good,_ Dean thought, and he felt a thrill, a mean-spiritedness that swelled up inside him, hot and bright. _Everyone leaves me. Every damn one of them._

_I want you to hate me. I want you to. Make it that much easier for you and Bobby to let me go. You'll be damn glad when I'm gone. _

* * *

**_A/N: Next – Dean gets out of the hospital._**


	14. kindred spirits

_**A/N:**_ Thanks, Twinchy!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 14 – kindred spirits**_

"You did WHAT?" Bobby roared. The fact that the man was miles away didn't do anything to make Sam flinch away from his cell. There was a long moment of silence that followed. Sam couldn't help it; he tensed up the whole time.

"Look, princess," Bobby said finally. "This thing with Dean isn't gonna work if you run off like some damn diva every time he pisses you off."

Sam didn't answer. "Better answer me when I'm talking to you, boy," Bobby growled.

"Yeah," Sam whispered.

"That knucklehead brother of yours knows how to push all your buttons, but you know his buttons too. I suggest you get your ass back in there and return the favor. Take a walk around the hospital. Cool off, take your time, and then get your ass back in there. Unless I miss my guess, Dean ain't goin' anywhere. Not yet, anyway. Rufus and I are just about done." Sam could almost see the head shake in the man's voice. "Idjit."

Sam could hear Rufus growl in the background. "I didn't come over here to get talked about like this, Singer."

"I'm not talking to you or about you, Rufus," Bobby snapped. "But a whipped dog will holler."

"Think it'll work, Bobby?"

"Yeah. Probably. I don't know. So what the hell are you doin' still talking to me? Move your ass, Sam."

Sam hung up. Sam did.

* * *

God, this daytime crap hadn't improved since the last time he was flat on his back. Dean scowled as he thumbed the buttons on the remote. The only good thing was that he didn't see any commercials with that damn fabric softener bear. Huh. Would have been nice to hunt that creepy little sonofabitch down, but he never got around to it. And it was a little late to do now; his Bucket List was full.

Public television…talking heads. No nature programs, nothing about wolves in the wild or wild horses living free. The rest of the shows was stuff he'd seen before: old sitcoms he'd seen as a kid, in some crappy motel room somewhere, and those damn soap operas. No baseball, no football, not even a friggin' hockey game was on, for cripes' sake.

_Days of Our Lives._ Huh. Dean rolled his eyes and wondered why the hell _that_ was still on. He was 15 at the time, laid up for a week after he won that argument with that black dog near Rockwell, Ohio. The only episodes he ever watched were the ones in which that female doc was possessed by the Devil.

It was good for a laugh; Dad thought it was funny, too.

Dean glanced down at his right arm. His skin looked nearly normal, that is if you could ignore that long incision from his wrist to his elbow. The staple marks looked like a ladder, neat and precise, all the way down. He'd be reminded of what happened at Anderton Ironworks for the rest of his life, however long that would be.

Not long, if he had his way about _that_.

No telling what Bobby and Sam had planned once he got home, but they couldn't stop him, right? Get his duffel, pop the trunk on the Impala, get what he needed and then he could haul ass. What were they gonna do, shoot him?

Oh shit. They just might.

There was nothing on the damn idiot box, and his brain kept wandering back to Sam. That hurt look on Sam's face…kid didn't get it. He never would. Some things can't be forgiven. Shouldn't be.

Dean closed his eyes as he heard Leslie scream inside his head again _(Nonononoplease),_ and he could swear he tasted Harlan's blood, slick and coppery sweet in his mouth.

He opened his eyes again, and it was a relief to see Veronica, the nurse, roll in with that damn wheelchair. She winked at him. "Bet you thought we forgot about you, Richard."

Dean rolled his eyes wearily. "Dang."

"Aw, c'mon, we missed you down in the dungeon." Veronica pulled down the foot pedals, made an exaggerated sweeping bow. "Your implements of torture await you, Lord Sambora."

Physical therapy. Okay. Fine. Dean nodded towards the wheelchair as he threw the covers off. "I keep telling you I can walk down there."

"Hospital rules, sport. Now get your fine ass in this chair and let's roll."

* * *

Sam came out of the stairwell just as Veronica rolled Dean out into the hall. They went in the opposite direction, and as usual Dean had switched moods. He was laughing and joking with her about not running up the meter, and the rumble of Dean's voice pissed Sam off a little.

_I'm trying to help you, you dumb sonofabitch_, Sam thought. He stood perfectly still and he watched as they went down the hall and turned the corner. He didn't even have to glance at his watch. 2:15 then. Dean's daily physical therapy session. According to the doctors he was coming right along; the infection was just about gone, and they planned on turning him loose on Friday.

Once he was in the room the first thing Sam did was check to see if the brass amulet was still underneath Dean's mattress. He was really surprised to find out that it was. It was white magic (_You stay put now_) something Bobby had gotten from a friend down in New Orleans, with a little bit of protection added.

Sam turned the chair at Dean's bedside around. He wanted to see the look on Dean's face when he rolled back in.

* * *

"Damn," Kyle down in Physical Therapy muttered as Dean picked up the tennis ball with his right hand without even being prompted to. "I feel so useless."

"Dude. You said it. I didn't." Dean squeezed the ball, held his grip for two seconds, then released it. He repeated the motion five more times, then quirked an eyebrow at Kyle. "Six reps total, right?"

"Yeah. What, no bitching and complaining? I love it when my patients bellyache."

"Nope." Flexing his hand like that hurt, no question, tiny shocks of sharp pain that needled its way up his nerve endings. That was the least that he deserved.

"Now you know you're gonna have to continue this for a while once you leave. I'll give you an instruction sheet as a reminder, but I don't think you're gonna need reminding. Might even throw in some party favors. Tennis ball, couple of bungee cords." Kyle slid into the chair opposite Dean. "It's easy money when you come down here, partner. All I have to do is sit and watch."

"Admission's five bucks." Dean put down the tennis ball, picked up the rubber bands and twined them around the fingertips of his right hand. He relaxed his hand and fingers, then opened them up for a two second hold, then he relaxed. Five more.

The better he got at this, the sooner he could leave this place.

Dean looked down at the stitch marks in his arm. He blanked his mind, blanked out the way Harlan Gates' throat quivered and shook in his mouth, blanked out Leslie Hardy's screams and moans in his head.

Six more exercises to go.

* * *

Sam dreamed, and he waited.

He sat in a clearing next to Dean's hospital bed. That was the only other thing left from the real world. The grass was thick and green underneath his feet. Tall trees and rolling hillsides; that sky overhead was too blue, too bright and perfect. He caught glimpses of blond fur, wide green eyes flashing through the shadows in the brush around him.

"I know you're out here," Sam called out.

_Sorry, _Dean rumbled softly inside Sam's head. The wolf stepped out into the open, big and blonde and glorious, his tail carried low between his legs.

Sam sat back in the chair. He had a bad moment, a second in which his skin twitched with the memory of Dean's teeth.

The moment passed. The animal standing in front of him seemed shy, almost fearful, not the cheerfully murderous creature back at Anderton Ironworks.

"Dean?"

Dean stared at the ground._ Didn't mean to hurt you. Didn't want to. _

"It's okay." Sam put his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. "I know you didn't."

The animal shook its head. _'s not okay. I hurt you. Hurt my pack._ The voice was a tad lower than Dean's normal voice, but the inflection was pure Dean. It glanced at Sam's right arm and then quickly looked away.

"Have you always been here?"

The animal rolled its eyes. _Dumb question, Sammy. Always. Wang-Mei didn't make me. You did. Dad did. _

"You're Dean's spirit animal." It was a simple declaration of fact.

The wolf smirked proudly.

Sam made a mental note to research totem animals and spirit guides as soon as he could get his laptop. It was back at Bobby's place, and he didn't even waste time bitching at himself for leaving it there. This was more information than he'd had when the day started.

"I want you to understand something," Sam said slowly. "The people you killed…that wasn't your fault."

Those wide green eyes blinked_. Do it again if I had to._

"What?"

_You heard me. Pack needs protection. Got nothing to atone for. He wants to make amends. Thinks we need to die because of what we did._ Dean as wolf's tone was disdainful, as though that was the dumbest thing he had ever heard.

_"Kill me, Sam…" Dean whispered in Sam's memory. "Please…kill me…"_

_No need for that. Didn't do anything wrong._ The wolf lifted his head and stared Sam in the eyes for the first time.

"I won't let anything happen to you. You know that. Pack needs protection."

The animal pricked its ears alertly at the words, and that thick plume of a tail wagged a little, from side to side.

The wolf stretched his neck out, nuzzled Sam's right hand, almost shyly.

Sam woke up with a jerk.

* * *

Hank Bates, sat in his motel room on the other side of town. He cleaned all his guns, sharpened his knives one by one. Several of the knives had been blessed by Father Hanley back in Wyoming, and he smiled a little as he used the whetstone. If only the good Father could see him now.

Several gallon jugs of holy water sat in the bathtub. His grey business suit hung in the closet, his fake badge as "Detective Harry Callahan" tucked away in one pocket.

That Richard Sambora, the patient back at the hospital? Kid hadn't believed a word of it.

Hank could see the wheels turning in the dude's head, like he knew Hank wasn't really a detective, and he wanted to tell him something, something important, but he'd stopped himself at the last moment.

_Dog attack, my ass,_ Hank thought. He'd seen this kind of thing on other hunts, seen the way the human half of the fugly scented the air whenever a hunter came around. This time was no different.

Hank got a cash advantage from one of the fake credit cards, passed fifty dollars to one of the nurses on Sambora's floor. She'd call Hank the moment Sambora's release date came through. The motel was close enough to the hospital; he could get there by the time the bastard was released.

Civilians never realized what was really out there. The world was safe and normal, and shadows never had teeth. Sambora still looked human, but Hank knew better.

Silver bullets worked on any number of beasts. Double tap in the head, and any problems that Richard Sambora (or whoever the hell he really was) had would promptly cease to exist.

It was the right thing to do.

* * *

Half an hour later Veronica rolled Dean back into his room.

Sam smiled, wide and cheerful. The surprised look on Dean's face was priceless.

TBC Friday


	15. bad to the bone

**Chapter**** 15 – bad to the bone**

_He came back_.

Just like that friggin' bad penny, or that damn cat in that rhyme. People don't _do _that. Not for _Dean_. They leave. Everyone _does_, sooner or later.

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched upwards in a smile like a cat that just ganked the hell out of a whole flock of friggin' canaries. The skin around his eyes crinkled a little every time he even looked in Dean's direction.

No bitchface. Something had changed. And it was obvious that whatever this was, Sam figured it was a change in _his_ favor. Crap.

_You wanna play games, then? Fine._ Dean scowled at Sam.

The patented Dean Winchester Glare of Doom had absolutely no effect.

Dean took over the remote for the television, switched the channel to the bloodiest crap he could find. Whales got slaughtered by the hundreds for their blubber, African lions pulled down countless wildebeest. Baby seals were endlessly clubbed to death.

Sam didn't even blink.

And he never stopped smirking at Dean.

_This is pathetic, Winchester. _Dean thought to himself. _Fucking pathetic._

When Mattie arrived two hours later with dinner, Dean lifted the lid on the tray and peered disgustedly at the plate. Baked chicken and green beans and some thick white blob that claimed to be mashed potatoes and Dean was fairly damn certain that it really_ wasn't_.

Mattie smiled and winked, nice and pleasant, at Sam. "I've got an extra tray here, Sam. You want it?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks."

Dean froze. That mouthful of baked chicken suddenly tasted like cardboard.

Two hours later Sam got up, made a big deal of stretching that ridiculously long body of his. "Well, it's been fun."

Sam stepped forwards the bed, and for a moment it seemed like he was going to peck Dean on the forehead and tuck him in for the night. Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest and growled. "Touch me and die."

There it was again, that slight, knowing smile. "See you tomorrow, bro'."

Dean rolled his eyes at him and grunted.

Two hours later Dean fell asleep.

It was cold right there at the center of the crossroads. Despite his leather jacket he shivered from the chill in the night air. Dean glanced up at the red neon sign on the building over at the edge of the parking lot: LLOYD'S BAR.

The wolf didn't show itself, but _she _did.

* * *

The house was quiet. Even the dogs were stretched out on the floor sound asleep. Dinner was over, the dishes were washed and already put away. _Didn't need a woman's touch,_ Rufus thought. Bobby was a regular Martha Stewart.

Not that he'd dare say that to Singer's face. You don't insult a man like that in his own house. Especially a man with an arsenal of guns and God knows what else.

Rufus and Bobby sat at the kitchen table with that open bottle of Jack and two shot glasses on the table.

"You getting sloppy in your old age, Singer?"

Bobby scowled. Sam was in the front room with his laptop. "Keep your damn voice down," Bobby rumbled. He got up and closed the door quietly. No need for Sam to hear whatever this was going to be. "Now what the hell's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Now I know you told Parker and the others that factory needed to be salted and burned, and we did it, but as far as I know _I'm_ the only one you told about Dean." Rufus shrugged. "What makes you think that I won't put him down in a heartbeat as soon as he shows up here? I'd be doin' him a favor if I did that."

Bobby didn't even blink. "Because you know this could have happened to any one of us. You know that Dean's as innocent in this as those two people are."

"He might have been innocent once. People change. _Things change_," Rufus added pointedly.

"Dean's a good man. A damn good one. That's why he's worth saving." Bobby shook his head. "He's scared of what he did, scared for his brother and everyone around him. Seems to me if he was a monster he just wouldn't give a damn. Same thing goes for you, you old fool."

"Is that a fact?"

Bobby nodded. "That's a fact. You try to hide it, but I know why you changed, Rufus, why you got so damn hard and stubborn over the years. If you didn't give a damn none of this would even bother you. If you really didn't give a damn, you wouldn't be a hunter anymore, either."

Rufus knocked back the shot of Jack in front of him, slammed the glass down on the table. Damn good stuff. "Am I that fucking obvious?"

"Yeah, you stupid sonofabitch. You are. I know you're not gonna tell anyone else. Anyway, we gotta try." Bobby nodded towards the bottle. "Never mind this stuff. Got some Johnny Walker Blue Label. The really good stuff. I'm saving _that_ for when Dean gets clear of this mess."

"I can see why his brother didn't do the honors that night. Maybe _you_ should have," Rufus said flatly. "Think all this hoodoo is gonna work?"

"Hell if I know." Bobby nodded towards the closed kitchen door. "But that boy in there deserves a shot at saving his brother. Dean deserves a fighting chance too."

Rufus just shrugged and poured himself another finger of Jack.

* * *

The wolf prowled around in the underbrush beyond the parking lot.

_Don't understand this,_ the animal muttered to itself.

_Yeah, _Dean thought, _I figured you wouldn't, you dumb bastard. _

The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood straight out as he heard the sound of high heels against gravel behind him. Before he turned around he blanked his face so that he looked unconcerned, even though he was anything but.

"Dean, darling!"

It was a different body this time. She was tall and curvy, with thick wavy red hair down to the middle of her back. The white dress she wore hugged every curve of her body. It was sleeveless, with a dangerously low cut neckline.

She laughed, a surprisingly light and airy sound when Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. Her eyes flashed red in the moonlight. "What? I can wear white if I want to."

"You know why I'm here." He sounded calm, steady. There was _that_, at least.

The wolf barked twice, sharply.

"Seems like your friend doesn't want you to make the deal, Dean." The demon pouted. "Poor little puppy. He doesn't think he did anything wrong." She stared at Dean's face, and the hungry glimmer in those red eyes made his skin crawl. "But…you…you _do_, don't you? Yesss…"

God, the way she stared at him, it was like she was seeing past his skin right down to his core. And _God_? That was a joke. _He_ had nothing to do with _any_ of this.

"You dream about it," the crossroads demon murmured. She swayed slightly from side to side. "Every. Single. Night." She punctuated every word with a step as she moved around Dean, brushed her painted red fingertips over his broad shoulders.

"Every night," she purred in a sing song voice. "Pretty little Leslie, screaming as you ripped into her. Harlan, begging for his life. Old Wang Mei knew a keeper when he saw one, and that's_ you_ all over, darling boy."

"Did you come to deal," Dean gritted out, "or did you come to mouth off?"

"I just came to mess with you, that's all. And not in a good way, either. You trapped me last time, remember? Tables have _turned_, big fella."

"Doesn't have to be ten years," Dean said, and he hated hearing that slight tremble in his voice. "Five. I'll take five."

"Hmmm. No." Those thick red curls bounced as she shook her head. "Sorry."

"Three, then."

"Uh uh. Don't stop on my account. I just _love_ hearing you beg. It's such a turn-on."

"What the hell do you _want_?"

The wolf howled. Dean pulled out his Colt 1911 from his back waistband with one hand and stared into the darkness. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

The crossroads demon closed her eyes, leaned towards Dean, tilted her head back as though she was scenting the air. "Oh, baby. All that pain. You are _exquisite_, you know that?"

"You can drag me down to hell. _Right now._ I won't fight."

_Stop begging,_ Dean thought to himself. _Stop begging this bitch. Stop it…_

"Right fucking _now_, you hear me, as long as you bring them both back, alive and whole."

"Sorry, Dean. Oh, I know, honey, you're so torn up over Harlan and Leslie. Much as I'm tempted to dicker a deal for you, sweetness, I'm afraid your suffering is the whole point of this exercise." She leaned forward, put her hand on his right arm.

"When you get out of the hospital, and you ditch that annoying brother of yours, you come to Lloyd's. For real." Her lips brushed against his. "I gotta leave now, Dean, but you should be used to _that_ by now. Everyone leaves you, freak. _Everyone_." The air around her shimmered as she faded out.

The wolf turned his head up to the sky and howled, loud and long.

* * *

Sam sat in the library and waited.

He didn't worry about taking up too much room or squeezing someone out. He had the whole table to himself. The place was quiet now; the wall clock nearby ticked the minutes off, slow, even and steady.

Sam glanced down at the book in his lap. The table was nearly covered with books; most of them he'd pulled off the shelves just out of curiosity. The book on the table in front of him was_ Animal Totems_, by Gerald Lester.

_When the human spirit is in great turmoil, animal spirits are capable of leading the soul home._

Sam stared out the window, at the people walking by, the traffic on the street. When he glanced down again, the text had changed: _Apples are not as fond of goats as goats are of apples._

Huh. Sam blinked.

_Dreaming,_ he thought to himself. _I'm dreaming. _The thought made him laugh out loud. There was no one else around, no librarian to shush him and tell him that he was making far too much noise.

One of the techniques of lucid dreaming: look at a text, and then look away. In a dream the text may very well change to something else entirely. He'd never tried it before, but this was for Dean. Sam was willing to try damn near any and everything.

Sam glanced away, then looked down again: _Follow your frogs. In the meantime remember that fruit trees bloom in the midnight sun. _

Something in the stacks, two rows over, huffed, a soft, impatient sound.

"I know you're here," Sam said out loud. "I've been waiting for you. It's okay. We need to talk."

Whatever this was didn't move.

One of the books, a heavy leather bound volume on _Myths and Legends_ tilted over and hit the floor with a solid thwack. Sam leaned over in his chair, scooped the book up, and when he straightened up he found himself face to face with the one he was looking for.

The red fox blinked at Sam, and Sam blinked back.

It sat on the top of the stack of books on the table. The white tip of its full bushy tail waved slightly in the air.

Sam sat back in the chair. "Hello."

The creature grinned. _Not what you expected?_

"Uh…no."

_We never are._

"Why don't you look like Dean's wolf?"

_Because you're not Dean. Not smarter…just…different. _

"Oh."

"Do you…" Sam paused, then cleared his throat. His mouth suddenly felt dry, and he really wasn't sure he should ask, but he heard himself say: "Do you know what my Dad's spirit animal was?"

_A stag._

"And…and my Mom?"

_A cougar._

"What about..."

_Jessica was a Swan,_ the fox said simply. It shrugged._ Everyone has different guides during their lives. Some, like Dean, only have the one. Wolf. No matter what we look like, we're his pack. He knows this. _The creature cocked its head to one side as it stared at Sam. _It's not good for them to be alone._

It rose to its feet, backed up and pushed one of the books towards Sam with its paws. _Here._

Sam glanced down at the text:

"One day an old Cherokee chief decided to tell his grandson about the two 'wolves' inside all people. One wolf is evil. It is vengeful, impatient, violent and guilty. The other wolf is Good. It lives in joy and peace, with love, compassion and hope. The grandson thought about what his grandfather said, and then he asked: 'Which wolf wins?'

The grandfather replied, 'The one you feed.'"

Sam remembered the way Dean's wolf had acted around him. Shy, almost fearful, unwilling to believe that Sam could forgive him, or even try to understand him.

The fox talked, and Sam listened.

* * *

_TBC next week. _


	16. you can't always get what you want

_**A/N: **_Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by the Rolling Stones. Believe it or not, there is some comfort for Dean in this one, but there's more hurt coming after this.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 16 - You can't always get what you want**_

_Sonofabitch is pissed off at me,_ Deanthought. He sat on the tree stump and watched the wolf slink through the underbrush. Sunlight and shadows played off that thick dark blond coat; the animal glared at him, unblinking, eyes narrowed, and Dean glared right back.

It all seemed real, the warm breeze that ruffled his hair and clothes, the smell of the pine trees all around in the forest, but he knew it wasn't. It was Thursday night. He'd be released from the hospital Friday morning.

He really didn't know if he'd be dreaming this time tomorrow night. Probably not.

Last time. Last dream pays for all.

_When you get out of the hospital and ditch that annoying brother of yours,_ she'd said, eyes flashing blood red, _come and see me. We'll talk._

Straight to hell, then. That would be the easiest way. Easier for Sam and for Bobby. It would be like ripping a bandage off. Quick, and clean. They were strong. They'd make it. **Dean**knew they would.

And Harlan and Leslie would get to live out their lives, the way they should have all along.

The wolf stared at someone…_something_…directly behind Dean. It growled, then lowered its large head and whimpered.

"Fuck you," Dean snarled out loud. He knew who it was.

Wan Mei laughed. The front of that awful mirror face darkened. Two sets of bulging white eyes and curved white fangs thrust out into the open air. Blood red and black shadows swirled around the thing, and then everything melted and blurred.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the illusion standing there.

"I gave you a gift, a glorious gift, and you're going to just toss it away?"

"Damn right I am, you sonofabitch."

"Most people don't ever see what's inside them. They don't _want _to see it," notDad rumbled. "I had such high hopes for you, Dean. You were magnificent. Powerful and obedient." notJohn stared fondly at wolfDean. It pricked its ears up and the tip of its thick tail wagged slightly.

WolfDean very pointedly ignored the dirty look Dean gave him.

notJohn shifted back into Wan Mei's form. He chuckled, and the air around him crackled with darkness. "There's no shame in that. None at all."

"I said shut the fuck up, freak!"

"I will. Just one more thing, though." Dean rolled his eyes. Demonic bastards never knew when to shut up.

"I'll be waiting for you down in Hell, Dean."

"What?"

"We can pick up right where we left off," Wan Mei purred. "Oh, the souls we'll shred, you and I."

WolfDean barked happily.

"That's my good boy." Wan Mei faded away around the edges first, until the whisper of his voice made the grass at Dean's feet wither and turn brown. "See… you… soon…."

Dean jerked himself awake. His heart pounded in his chest, thundered fast and panicky between his ears.

He stared up at the darkened ceiling and forced himself to breathe, in and out.

* * *

It was a habit of his. Bobby knew it. He accepted it. Once last walkthrough before he went to bed.

_Busy day tomorrow. _

That "stay put" amulet had stopped Dean from slipping out of the hospital. That was good news, at least. Or maybe not. Maybe it didn't affect him at all. Dean had a plan, Bobby was sure of it, and maybe part of that plan involved him getting well anyway.

One thing Bobby hated was trying to get inside someone else's head, but he was good at it. Most of the time, anyway. The plan was to contain Dean, and then convince him not to throw his life away for something that wasn't his fault anyway.

_This is it,_ Singer? Bobby's mind snarked at him one day as he and Rufus planted the amulets. _This is your plan?_

_Yep. You got a better idea?_

No answer.

_Shut the hell up then._

Dean's plan was more than simple suicide. He wanted to atone, and _that_ was scary as hell. Getting him home tomorrow was only half the battle. Sam was the key. Sam _had_ to be the reason Dean wouldn't sacrifice himself, and Bobby wasn't sure even that would work anymore. They'd have to start in on him hard and fast, and keep up the pressure. Dean was normally even tempered, more so than John Winchester ever was, more than Sam most days, but even so…

Bobby wasn't a betting man, but the odds weren't good.

All three of them would pick Dean up from the hospital tomorrow. Things were bound to get pretty lively then. No telling how the kid would react once he got a taste of freedom, and from the looks of things, Rufus was the right choice for the third man. He'd dog Dean, wouldn't cut him any slack at all. This kind of operation needed someone like that.

Bobby crossed into the kitchen. Hell of a thing for a man to have to lock up his knives, meat cleavers and such. The other tools of Bobby's trade were under lock and key too, hidden away in compartments and secret doors stashed around the house. That might have stopped a normal person. Dean was anything but. The kid was a lock picking fiend with a paperclip.

The other "stay put" amulet, the one underneath the mattress of Dean's hospital bed? That one was expendable. It was specifically keyed to Dean, and harmless to anyone else. No sense in retrieving it in front of Dean and letting him know what was up.

Of course Dean suspected. He wasn't dumb, even though he preferred to have people think he was.

The mirrors set high up in the doorways over the front and back doors were painted with a variation of the same sigils. The perimeter of the house and yard was lined with the amulets, back breaking labor that required them to be planted in the ground once every three feet. That was back breaking labor, but once in place Dean couldn't cross the line. AT least, that was the theory.

Bobby would have to see that one to believe it. Damn Winchesters were like wild dogs. They could wiggle their way in and out of everything, even if it wasn't good for them.

_Especially_ if it wasn't good for them.

The panic room was ready. It was the place of last resort. They couldn't keep Dean locked up forever. Bobby knew that, but he wasn't sure Sam felt the same way. Bobby figured Ellen would soundly cuss him out later on if she ever found out he'd left her out of the loop like this. That was one burden Bobby could bear.

Sam Winchester lay sprawled out on the couch in the living room. Sam snored noisily and he barely stirred when Bobby unfolded that thick blue and gold afghan folded over the back of the couch and dropped it over him. Bobby just didn't have the heart to wake the kid up and tell him to go sleep in his own damn bed upstairs.

They'd thought of everything, but chances were good they'd missed something. That was the way things worked. Hopefully that one missed detail wasn't something that would turn back and bite them on the ass, big time.

Moments later Bobby slipped under the covers of his own bed. God, he felt worn down. He was getting way too damn old for this.

_We Dean Winchester-proofed the damn place,_ and tired as he was, the thought made him laugh out loud.

* * *

_We change,_ the fox whispered softly. _We always do._ It curled up sharp black nose to thick, fluffy red tail on Sam's chest. _Don't need all that other stuff. Just this. _

Sam dreamed, but things had changed. The grass underneath his back was a lush green carpet. Blue sky stretched overhead, but Sam didn't see it. He kept his eyes closed. Sunlight warmed his face.

The fox breathed in and out, and so did Sam, in perfect harmony.

* * *

He was screwed.

Dean stared up at the white tiles in the ceiling above his bed.

"_We can pick up right where we left off. Oh, the souls we'll shred, you and I." _

Screwed? Well, damned and bound for hell was more like it. There wasn't any other way around this. He was Wan Mei's good little beast up here, and apparently he was going four legged again once he made the deal.

And he was_ still_ going to make it. Never was any doubt of that. Every time Dean closed his eyes at night, he heard Harlan scream. He could taste that strawberry scented hand lotion on Leslie's skin.

The idea of shredding souls down in Hell was too big, too vast for him to imagine. Dean took a breath, closed his eyes. Less than five minutes he later drifted off into sleep. He was four legged as he romped through the dream landscape now, and he wasn't alone.

A small red fox stuck its head out of the underbrush. It bowed down low on its forelegs, smiling, that thick red tail wagging lazily in the air. It was a play bow, something domestic and wild dogs know all about.

WolfDean pricked his ears alertly. He grinned right back, and his tail wagged a little.

It was crazy.

He played tag with the critter, dodged and weaved through the tall grass and the underbrush. They grinned and barked at each other for what seemed like hours, and what was even crazier was the fact that sometimes the fox looked like another wolf, big and brown and shaggy, and sometimes it looked like Sam.

The scene changed. Seagulls circled overhead, and the smell of salt filled the sunlit air.

Dean was ten now, and he and six year old Sammy ran barefoot in the sand, kicked the waves into white froth. Dad sat nearby. He watched his boys with a quiet smile on his face, and Dean knew that it really was Dad this time. No mirror faces, no blood red air.

It was a peaceful and playful memory, but it wasn't what Dean felt he deserved.

He woke up some time later. He breathed in and out, and he stared at the ceiling until his eyelids got too heavy. His chest felt heavy, but the weight was warm, somehow comforting and familiar.

The fox came again in his dreams.

Harlan and Leslie never showed up.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Yeah, not my usual evil cliffie. The next chapter will be posted Saturday at the latest. There _will_ be blood and angst in that one.


	17. stairway to heaven

_**A/N: **_Two more chapters and an epilogue to go. Much thanks to everyone who hung in there. Chapter title taken from the song by Led Zeppelin.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 17 – stairway to heaven**_

_**TEN**_

Sam woke up smiling.

His body felt different somehow. He knew he was human, he was certain of it, but there was another sensation overlaid over that one. Sam raised his hands in front of his face and stared, just to make sure. He wriggled his fingers, flexed his hands, his toes and his spine.

He remembered.

Grass underneath his paws, and the wind ruffled his fur like the caress of an unseen lover.

_We change,_ the fox whispered. _We always do._

Sam felt happy.

_Dean_ as wolf was happy.

Harlan was forgotten, for once, and so was Leslie. Dean chuffed noisily as he played with Sam. He was a kid again, no cares, no worries, no guilt.

Sam laid there still and quiet. The sights and sounds of the dream rumbled and snapped inside the space behind his eyes gradually fading away into the background. He couldn't pick up the wild, green scents around him anymore, but he hadn't lost anything, and he knew it.

_Don't need all that other stuff. Just this. _

It was going to be a good day.

_**NINE**_

Hank Bates glanced at his watch as he loaded the sniper rifle with the scope into its case. Check out time at the hospital in forty five minutes. Plenty of time.

* * *

Sam showed up at a quarter to eleven, just as Doctor Ellis finished up examining Dean's arm. There was a moment when Sam actually expected Dean to look at him and wink, or say "Hiya, Foxy." Something. It wasn't going to happen, of course. If he remembered the dreams Dean gave no sign.

He nodded at Sam when Sam walked in, then turned his full attention to the doctor. To anyone who didn't really know him, Dean seemed loose and relaxed. He wasn't. He was pretending that everything was okay. Sam could see the subtle line of tension, taut like an overstretched wire, throughout his brother's broad shoulders. Dean smiled, and made small talk, and it was all a show.

Sam leaned against the door and watched. There wasn't any need to retrieve that "stay put" amulet underneath Dean's mattress. It was keyed specifically to Dean and wouldn't affect anyone else. If the staff found it they might think it was some kind of weird little token or a kid's fake coin.

"Damn good muscle tone, Mr. Sambora. You're one of my best patients." The good doctor was short and bald-headed. He ran his fingers up and down Dean's arm, stared at the stitchwork in Dean's arm with a practiced eye. "Hmm. You're a fast healer, too. If you want to help it along, you can put some vitamin e oil on your skin. Cocoa butter's good too."

"Chicks dig scars, doc," Dean smirked.

Dr. Ellis sighed. "I wouldn't know. I'm married."

"Oh. Sucks to be you."

Ellis handed Dean a plastic bag with party favors: a sheet of instructions on how to continue the exercises ("Not that I think you're gonna need this" Harvey had written on the top of the page), two bungee cords and a couple of brand new tennis balls.

Sam straightened up as the doctor passed him, then tossed Dean the duffel containing his clothes.

Dean didn't waste any time. He pulled his black boxer briefs out of his duffel bag, shimmied them up over his hips to his waist and then shucked off that green hospital gown in one motion.

Sam turned around in the opposite direction so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "Uh, Dean? Dude, I can go outside---"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snarled. He grabbed his jeans out of the bag and had one leg in when somebody out in the hall did a wolf whistle.

Dean froze, stork-like, one leg up and bent at the knee.

Veronica the nurse stood in the doorway with a wheelchair. She eyed Dean appreciatively, from head to toe. Her eyes lingered on his face, his chest and those black boxer briefs.

Dean hopped, one legged, a few steps to the side. "What?"

"Nice abs," Veronica snarked.

Dean sniffed. "Don't objectify me."

Sam snorted; Dean glared at him. The door was blocked. Sam could tell Dean was giving going out the window some major consideration. The only problem with that scenario was they were ten stories up.

Hell with it. Dean finished pulling on his jeans and buttoned his fly. He glared at Veronica. "I'm a free man." He nodded curtly at the wheelchair, dropped his voice into a threatening growl_. "I don't need that."_

Veronica snorted. She was not impressed."Oh yeah, you do. Hospital rules, sport. Your ass still belongs to us from bedside until you hit that curb."

Dean flicked a glance at Sam. Sam shrugged helplessly as Dean turned to glower at Veronica again.

Veronica was apparently immune to Dean's glare of doom. He lasted ten more seconds before he grunted. "Fine!"

He slipped on the rest of his clothes, shrugged into his leather jacket. Veronica didn't move until Dean sat down in the wheelchair with his feet on the metal petals and his arms crossed over his chest.

Sam snorted at Dean's expression; big bro' looked supremely pissed and oddly young now, like a four year old with his lower lip stuck out defiantly. Dean's back stiffened as he heard several barely muffled snorts of laughter at his back. Sam shouldered Dean's duffel bag and took up the rear.

Veronica wheeled the chair around smartly and headed out into the hallway. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to poke the beast, but Sam couldn't help it. He covered his mouth with his right hand as a few more snorts managed to escape.

Dean didn't pout. He scowled.

_Yeah. Right. _

_**EIGHT**_

The parking lot and the hospital entrance were clear. Hank checked the scope once more, sighted in on that black classic car. 1967 Chevy Impala. The younger brother had driven the car in each time to see his brother. A few twenties here and there, and it was amazing the information the working stiffs around here would offer up.

Two older men stood by the car. The brother was inside.

_Head shot would be best,_ Hank thought as he squinted through the scope. _Kinder. Stop him in his tracks, cut his motor skills right off. Then one more through the heart. _No sense in making this kid suffer.

He did a practice run at the younger brother as the kid got out the car. Had him right in his sights, nice and easy. Kid was a big drink of water, but he wasn't Superman. A bullet wouldn't bounce off him, either. He'd been mauled by those dogs. Best to take care of him too.

_**SEVEN**_

Veronica stopped the wheelchair just outside the entrance. Dean saw the Impala and froze.

The nurse quirked an eyebrow at him. "Well? Last stop."

Rufus bared his teeth at Dean in a tight smile as the younger man got up stiffly.

"Don't come back here, now, y'hear?" Veronica called out, too loud and too cheerful. She wheeled the chair around and disappeared back inside.

"Oh, don't worry, Fido," Rufus said, grinning. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Jesus, Rufus," Bobby growled.

"You told him?" Dean snarled. The glare he aimed at Bobby and Rufus was intense enough to blister paint. "Why the hell did you _tell_ him?"

"Watch your tone with me, boy," Bobby grumbled. "We need all the help we can get."

"You'll be fine. Long as you behave yourself," Rufus added pointedly. That comment earned Bobby another, more intense glare from Dean. It was all wasted effort, though, because Bobby was apparently immune too.

That mulish, stubborn look on Dean's face promised nothing but trouble. "Keys, Sam. 'm driving."

Rufus stood up straighter. "No, you're not." He put his hand underneath his jacket, near his back waistband.

Dean huffed, a short bark of unamused laughter. "Dude. Seriously? You gonna shoot me right here, in front of all these people? You're dumber than you look. _My_ car, you sonofabitch. _Mine_, not yours." Dean stared hard at Sam, Rufus and Bobby. "I'm driving. Now give me my damn keys."

Sam flipped the keys into the air. Dean caught them easily with his right hand.

_**SIX**_

Hank had the back of Sambora's head in his crosshairs for all of two seconds. His finger tightened on the trigger and then froze. A food service delivery truck going in the opposite direction rumbled into view, and then came to a complete stop right in front of the entrance. Blocked the shot.

No matter.

A few seconds later that black car pulled away from the curb with Ritchie Sambora behind the wheel. Hank tracked him with the scope but there was still too much traffic between him and the kid. Hell with it.

Hank slid behind the wheel of his own car less than a minute later. He knew a shortcut.

_**FIVE**_

Things can get worse. They can always get worse.

That thought was the furthest thing from trucker Carl Madsen's mind. Three more hours and he was home for the weekend. That was a rare thing, for him to get home before midnight.

The cab of the truck skittered wildly from side to side. Blowout. Right front tire.

Madsen wrestled with the steering wheel. The brakes whined, and the truck wanted to roll. He could feel it. The loads inside the trailer shifted from side to side. , and his eyes narrowed as he worked the brakes. The tractor trailer skidded sideways. Madsen fought for control and won. The truck finally jolted and jerked to a stop, its ass end stretched across both lanes of traffic on the highway.

Madsen got out of the cab cussing up a storm. He barely heard all the honking and cussing from the cars and trucks behind him. Madsen pulled out his cell and frowned up as he hit speed dial. Damn company was gonna pay for this, not him. Wasn't his fault.

He heard the tire blow out, but Madsen never heard the shot.

No one did.

_**FOUR**_Dean turned the ignition off.

Both lanes were a parking lot now. It stretched back towards the hospital and the entrance ramp they'd used, as far as the eye could see. Dean looked around at all the cars sitting idle around them. Sam saw the corners of his brother's mouth firm up into a thin hard line.

Not such a good day after all.

Dean leaned down, reached underneath his seat, pulled something out and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

_Spare wallet,_ Sam thought. _Damn it._ Sam reached out. His fingertips skittered over battered brown leather, and when he closed his grip there was nothing. Dean was out the door and walking down the road quicker than it takes to tell it.

"Dean?" Sam hissed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He opened his door and was out nearly as fast.

"So what's it gonna be, Sam? You gonna kick my ass?" Dean grated out. "You couldn't do it when we were kids, and you sure in the hell ain't gonna do it now."

"Son of a bitch," Bobby cussed as he pushed his door open.

Rufus pulled his jacket open as he stood up outside the car. He didn't pull his gun. Too many witnesses in all the cars around.

"Dean?" Bobby roared.

"Sam, you better take good care of my girl," Dean called over his shoulder.

"Winchester!" Rufus called out. "You get your ass back here!"

Dean turned, and his smile was equally feral as he raised both arms out to his side. "You're gonna have to shoot me, then." He never stopped moving backwards.

"Don't tempt me, boy," Rufus grated out. "Get your ass back in the car."

"Fuck you, Rufus." Dean turned around and lengthened his stride.

Sam walked a few more paces, then stopped. He could have jogged forward, grabbed Dean by the arms and wrestled him down. Well, he could try.

"You're headed for the crossroads," Sam called out loudly. "Is that it? You gonna sell yourself, Dean?"

Dean stopped.

_**THREE**_

Hank Bates lay in the grass on the highway overpass. He grinned to himself as he tracked the cars with the sight and finally found the one he was looking for.

Huh. That Sambora kid was out of the black car.

Well, now. They all were.

Thanks, folks.

_**TWO**_

Dean hesitated. His head tilted down and a little to the side.

_Please, Dean, don't do this. Please…_

"That's the only thing that fits. You're gonna give up your soul for these people. Damn, dude," Sam shook his head. "I really didn't think you were_ that_ stupid."

"What?" Dean said sharply. He turned around, eyes narrowed, his right hand already clenched into a fist. Not a good sign.

"You heard me. One thing you seem to forget about that night. It's one thing, and it's the most important thing. You were mind fucked. You were. It's not your fault."

"That's it? That all you got? Damn," Dean chuckled as he shook his head. "That's one tired argument you got goin' there, college boy. If it's not my damn fault, then whose is it?"

"It's not anybody's fault, Dean. It's not your weight."

"It is. They wouldn't have died if it hadn't been for me." Dean ignored the startled looks on the faces of the people in the cars and trucks all around them. He had only eyes for Sam now, but even though Sam could see he was losing him.

Dean took a step back.

Then two.

_**ONE**_

"That's it," Hank whispered to himself. The crosshairs of the scope centered directly above the boy's chest, neatly bisecting the space above his heart into four quarters.

Hank pulled the trigger.

* * *

Next post Saturday. Oh, btw: this is _not_ a deathfic. Remember: people change.


	18. some kind of monster

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from the song of the same name, by Metallica.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 18 – some kind of monster**_

Dean staggered backwards a couple of steps. It was the damndest thing: felt like somebody punched him hard in the chest. He pulled in one breath, and then another; the air felt thick going in and down, like molasses or river mud. He didn't get it, couldn't understand how Sam could have gotten the drop on him, smacked him like that, and then jumped back. Kid was fast on his feet, but damn, he wasn't _that_ fast.

Sam looked wide-eyed, frightened. He wasn't staring at Dean's face; he was staring fixedly at a point lower down.

Dean's head bobbled as he followed Sam's eyeline. Something wet and dark was splattered across his shirt and jacket.

What the fuck…he couldn't remember what he'd had to eat for breakfast back at the hospital. Pancakes and syrup? Grape jelly? This stuff looked dark red, almost black. Never had been that damn sloppy before.

Dean lifted his hand, touched his shirt front and stared at his fingertips. The space above his heart was slick and wet, and as he watched a small trickle of blood spurted out and was immediately absorbed by the black fabric of his tee shirt. His heart pumped along like it always did, unmindful of the hole.

Dean blinked. His eyelids rustled down and then up with a papery whisper.

_Heart shot,_ Dean thought hazily, and those two words were all it took for his body to finally realize that it was so screwed. His knees buckled and loosened up, came undone as neatly and as suddenly as if the strings holding him upright had been cut. When he hit the ground the impact travelled up his spine like a kid skipping merrily down a flight of stairs.

Everything slowed down.

_Not like this. Not like this.…_

"Dean? No! Nooo –" Sam's voice shook the air around him as he lunged forward. Bobby and Rufus were right there behind him and then on top of him. They dragged him back behind that parked car nearby, away from Dean, and all the while Sam never looked away from his brother.

_Dean, please…_

He couldn't say the words. Dean felt tired all of a sudden, worn down to the bone. It was all he could do to think the words at his brother: _'m sorry, Sammy. 'm sorry…_

Rufus and Bobby held on to Sam for dear life. They saw the blood on Dean's shirt, they knew what was going on, even as the people in the cars all around them didn't. No one knew there was a sniper around.

At least, not yet, anyway.

Cell phones were pulled out, numbers were dialed.

"911. What is your emergency?"

"Yeah, we're out here on the I-25---"

Voices all around him, voices in his head. Dean cocked his head to one side, confused.

"It's a parking lot out here--"

He didn't know how he could hear all that, he just knew that he could.

"Guys on the highway yelling. There's something going on out here…"

Dean snorted, low and amused, and that made his chest hurt. There was something going on, all right. Civilians were so damn clueless, even when the shit was hitting the fan right in front of them.

Something uncoiled and grew inside him. Some of it Dean recognized as rage and loss. That was familiar and terrible enough, but that wasn't all, and Dean knew it. This nameless new thing rose up inside him, filled up the empty places, fiercely pushed at the cracks as it tried to get out.

* * *

Hank Bates was pretty damn satisfied so far. He could tell by the dazed look on the kid's face that the soon to be departed Richard Sambora wasn't going anywhere anymore, now and forever, amen. It was a less than lethal kill shot the first crack out of the box, but that might have been because of the added silver to the loads. Still, not bad. Sambora was down but not out, at least not yet, anyway. Happened like that sometimes.

Hank stared at Sambora through the scope, and he felt the hair at the back of his neck rise up. Seemed like the kid was staring right back at him, like he was seeing him, _really _seeing him, despite the distance between them. Bates' sniper nest on the embankment was fifteen hundred yards away.

Well. Hank steadied the rifle on top of the duffel he used as a platform. Head shot then. Right between those wide green eyes.

_I'm doing you a favor, boy. You and everyone else. _

There was motion on the right, just inside the edge of the scope sight. It caught Bates' attention so he tracked sideways, and there was baby brother. Wasn't a clear shot; that silver car was in the way, and there was too much moving around. The other two men held him back, but the kid was a tall, sturdy drink of water. Bates watched as Shaggy turned and very neatly planted his elbow into the black guy's face, then shrugged off the other man in the trucker's cap.

The younger boy stood up.

What the hell. Hank squeezed the trigger.

* * *

"You stupid bastard," Rufus yelled out. His pistol was in his hand before Bobby could react. His vision flashed white but he could see well enough. Rufus slammed the butt of his gun against the back of Sam's head. Sam slumped forward unconscious, just as something zipped into the air right through the space where his head had been. The bullet sliced into the tire of a red SUV in the lane nearest the shoulder. The owner of the SUV, a telemarketer by the name of Clive Timmons, briefly thought of getting out and confronting the men on the highway in front of him, but he rightfully figured they could easily whip his ass too.

Clive whipped out his cell phone and put in a call to the Highway Patrol.

Everyone else got a clue then.

Some people got out of their cars. Some froze, wide-eyed. Something definitely was not right; they could sense it in the air now. If they didn't know something was terribly wrong then, they certainly knew it after they saw and heard Dean.

Dean fell forward. He threw out both hands to break his fall. His right hand skidded forward; his fingers leaving bloody streaks on the pavement.

Dean threw his head back and howled, deep and mournful. No set of human lungs ever made a sound like that, before or since. The air around him shimmered dark blond.

He exploded out of his clothes. The side seams of his jeans separated as his legs and thighs shifted into a new position. His nails tore through the leather and hard rubber soles of his workboots. The back seam of his brown leather jacket split down the middle; the sleeves shredded. Dean's body jerked upward, then he settled back down on all four immediately. It happened in an eyeblink. A ripple shimmered its way through his muscles, from head to tail. He shook the tattered remnants of his clothes from his body in one smooth motion.

Dean was a whole new animal now.

He was wolf again, and he was easily twice as big as he'd been before. Those wide green eyes slid over Bobby, lingered on Sam's unconscious form, and then settled on Rufus Turner like a gunsight. Suddenly Rufus knew that hitting Sam Winchester was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. Ever.

Rufus froze. He refused to close his eyes. He stared at Dean and Dean stared right back at him. Not staring a normal dog in the eyes might have worked. Rufus figured he was a dead man anyway. He lifted the gun up.

Rufus was fast, but Dean was faster.

* * *

Bates cursed to himself. The kid was not only dead, he was changed, in broad open daylight, into the largest mother humping wolf Bates had ever seen before.

He fired twice more in quick succession. The first slug blew out the windshield of the brown van idling in the space behind the wolf. The second shot blew out the right front tire of the same van and sent the occupants of said van, Fred and Erma Hopkins and their two teenaged sons, screaming for the hills.

Bates forced himself to breathe, dead and slow, to steady himself.

The damn thing was gone.

* * *

Bobby remembered the touch of thick heavy fur, the flash of sharp white teeth. He jerked awake. He sat upright on the ground, and he was still alive, which was a pleasant surprise in and of itself. When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was Sam. Sam leaned against Bobby. The kid was still out cold, and that was a blessing, at least.

_Don't wake up,_ Bobby pleaded silently. _Please, don't wake up._

He reached back, put his hand on the pistol at his back waistband. _I gotta put Dean down. Don't want you to see this. _

Bobby cradled Sam with one hand, held the gun in the other. He raised the gun, and his damn hands shook as he aimed the pistol at Dean's broad furry back.

Bobby stared, and then he did the one thing he'd promised himself he would never do: he hesitated.

Dean straddled Rufus. He was sitting on him. It looked weird, seeing this huge wolf thing using its body weight to pin him down. Rufus' arms were pinned down at his sides, but he wouldn't give up his weapon; they all knew that. He'd die with it in his hand, but he wasn't going to kiss Dean's ass, even now.

"Do it!" Rufus yelled out. "Damn you Winchester, do it! What the hell are you waiting for?"

Dean shifted position and Bobby swore the corners of Dean's muzzle tugged upwards in a grin. The end of Dean's thick plume of a tail twitched back and forth, almost lazily.

"Damn," Rufus gasped, and Dean's smirk got a little wider.

Bobby cradled Sam. Dean lifted his head and stared at Bobby.

"D-Dean?" Bobby stuttered.

The animal quirked an eyebrow at him. The gesture was so Dean-like, so recognizable, it made Bobby's chest tighten. He stared down at Rufus, and lowered his head until they were nose to nose. Dean raised one corner of his muzzle, exposing sharp white teeth. The look he gave the man was clear: _Touch my brother again, and I'll kill you._

Rufus nodded shakily.

Dean huffed, then very slowly got up. He made sure he planted at least one of those massive paws in Rufus' midsection at least once, just to prove his point. Rufus sat up, but he kept the gun down on the ground. This wasn't what he expected from Fido.

"Dean?" Bobby whispered. He saw the bullethole in Dean's chest, the blood-streaked fur.

The look in Dean's eyes softened as he padded over. This wasn't what Bobby expected. This wasn't the same critter from Anderton Ironworks. That wolf had been gleeful, cheerfully homicidal.

For lack of a better word, this wolf Dean looked, well, sad. Uncertain.

His ears twitched backwards, and that broad furry brow of his furrowed. His tail hung down between his legs. He looked at Sam and whined.

Sam was still unconscious, but he stirred, his head jerked once, blindly, in Dean's direction. Sam's hand raised up, fingers jittering, and even with his eyes closed he managed to card Dean's fur. Bobby caught sight of that long black cord, the mellow gleam of bronze amid all that dark blond. Dean still wore the amulet Sam had given him on Christmas all those years ago.

Dean whuffed. He nosed the side of Sam's face in a tender, awkward gesture.

"D-Dean?" Sam groaned out loud. He was half awake now.

Dean whined again. He turned in a quick, tight circle, towards the embankment where the shots came from, and he was gone.

* * *

First time for everything now. Wasn't the first time a hunt had gone wrong for Hank Bates. It_ was_ the first time the crap hit the fan in a public place.

Everything was screwed up, now, everything had gone south. He couldn't see the critter anywhere, and the thought suddenly came to him that he would have to go down there. He'd have to go down there on the highway and finish the job, finish Richie Sambora and his brother and anyone else everyone else who'd been bitten.

Sirens in the distance, and the damn sound sent a chill down his spine. It wasn't supposed to be like this. A quick in and out, that was all. He couldn't stay and explain. He had to stay free to finish doing his job. Civilians wouldn't understand anyway. They never did.

Bates looked through the scope one more time, and what he saw was enough to make him reel backwards in shock. Dark blond fur, sharp white teeth, and the look in those green eyes was bright and murderous.

Bates glanced over the top of the scope.

Wolfy had come out to play. It was crouched on top of this blue panel truck that was right beside that black Impala.

_Gotcha,_ Bates smiled to himself. Damn mutt wasn't that smart after all then. He fired three times, then three more.

* * *

Glass shattered, and that was all it took for people to start running. Some of the smart ones crouched down low behind the cars. Some of the stupid ones panicked and ran screaming from their cars. Bates was experienced. He'd been a sniper in the military. He only had eyes for Dean, and he placed his shots accordingly. He was only human after all.

What came rushing at him was anything but.

Dean bounded from rooftop to rooftop in a zigzag motion. The first shot struck him in the left shoulder, but he didn't even break stride. The second shot went wild. Bates punched two more rounds into him. Dean flinched a little each time he was hit, but he didn't stop until he reached the roof of Carl Madsen's eighteen wheeler sixty feet away. Carl had long since fled the scene. He might not have heard the first shot that blew out the tire on his rig, but he certainly heard the rest.

And seeing a huge blond wolf running towards his truck, well, that was just the icing on the cake.

* * *

Dean rumbled laughter, and the sniper's eyes widened in fear.

Son of a bitch. It was the cop from the hospital. Sparky the hunter. That Harry Callahan bastard.

Dirty Harry scrambled to his feet. He carried the rifle with him as he shouldered his pack and stumbled into the woods behind him. Dean could smell silver and holy water in the duffel. He ached, but he could still move.

He could still hunt.

He felt the same, but different this time. No more fakeDad, no more notSam. There wasn't any separation between him and the wolf this time. They were together, and right then and there Dean knew the truth about this new thing he'd become. This wasn't for Wang Mei.

…_long ba…_

…_come…_

…_change… _

…_brjes_

This was for _him_. He'd recreated himself, turned what was done to him in a whole new way. Wang Mei let him out all right, let slip the wolf that was inside Dean all along, but Wang Mei was roasting down in hell right now. Dean wasn't.

Not yet anyway.

Dean wanted a death, but only at the crossroads, where it would count for something. His life was the only thing he had right now, something he could trade for Leslie and Harlan, something he could use to bring them back, to pay for what he'd done at the Anderton Ironworks. He'd killed two innocents. He tried to kill Sam.

He had to make this right.

Fear scent. Man scent. Sharp and sweet, salty, sour and spiky. Dean closed his eyes as he raised his muzzle into the wind and breathed in the scent. Easy to track, anywhere,_ everywhere_, for as long as it took.

This bastard not only tried to kill him, he tried to hurt Sam, and that was something Dean would not allow. Sam deserved normal after Dean was gone, and if that meant hunting this particular sonofabitch down and ripping him apart, so be it.

Dean lifted his head and howled, long and joyous, at the clear blue sky and the blazing sun above. In his mind's eye he could see the hunter stumbling through the woods.

Run, little rabbit, run.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes, and Bobby rocked back on his heels in shock.

They were in their own little bubble out there, away from the screams and the confusion of the civilians all around them. Rufus sat frozen in place. The deer in the headlights expression on his face was almost comical.

"Had to do it," Sam whispered hoarsely. "Had to let Dean know he wasn't alone." Sam stared down at his right hand. It wasn't a hand anymore, not exactly. His fingers were too slim. His skin was covered with shaggy dark brown fur, and his fingernails curved into claws.

"Sam?" Bobby spoke the words in a horrified whisper. "Sam, what the hell did you do?"

* * *

Next post Sunday


	19. time has come today

_**A/N: **_Thanks, Bundibird! You know why.

**_A/N the second:_** Chapter title taken from the song by the Chambers Brothers.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Supernatural_. This is for entertainment only and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 19 - time has come today**_

Hank Bates ran. He gripped his M40 rifle so tightly that his knuckles went dead white. As he ran he was sure of one thing: he was going to kill that bastard wolf thing. Kill it dead.

He'd kill_ all_ of them. The younger brother and those two older guys too. Some hunters didn't like to kill humans, but sometimes that had to happen to get the job done. Damn civilians. Didn't matter if they were misguided, traitors to the human race, or just plain clueless.

Those two brothers were bit, dangerous, and had to be put down, like…

Well, like _dogs_.

The ground ahead sloped upwards, loose sandy soil dotted with clumps of sparse grass. The forest and the underbrush grew thicker. More trees. Tall ones, too.

Bates pounded up the hill. Adrenaline sizzled through his nerve endings; his heart beat hard and fast against his ribcage. The blind panic he felt at first faded away. He felt pretty damn good, actually, oddly optimistic about his chances. This wasn't his first time at this particular rodeo. Hunts had gone south in the past, and he'd _always_ fixed them, _always_ survived. This time was not going to be any different, not if he had anything to say about it.

It was fairly obvious that wolf boy was tracking him by scent. That was something Bates could use. Where he ran, the green-eyed unnatural sumbitch would follow.

Another thing that made him feel better about his chances was the fact that he'd shot the damn wolf thing several times. It bled. And if it bled, it could be killed. The problem was to get to a place where he could set up a decent shooting platform, lay down a line of fire without getting his throat ripped out. That way he could pump rounds into Fido at his leisure.

He looked up at the tall trees around him and despite everything, despite the fact that he was running through the deep, dark woods with a godawful werewolf no doubt slavering at his heels, sniffing his trail, Hank Bates smiled to himself.

Perfect.

He was acutely aware of the knife strapped to his left forearm. That was a comfort somehow. His duffel shifted against his back, and the sound of metal shifting inside the pack reminded him that he had plenty of ammo, regular and silver loads, in addition to his M40 sniper rifle and the Taurus revolver he had holstered underneath his fatigue jacket.

Bates sprinted over to the nearest tree. He slung the rifle over his back, and then he grabbed at the lowest hanging branches and began to climb.

* * *

"Sam?" Bobby spoke the words in a horrified whisper. "Sam, what the hell did you do?"

Sam didn't answer. His hazel eyes glowed like an animal's backlit by an unseen light source. He leaned forward, and as he did thick shaggy brown hair exploded from the pores of his skin. Rufus made an involuntary sound of disgust and surprise as the air around the youngest Winchester brother crackled with a sharp, flat sound.

Sam Changed.

Bobby was silent. He felt something break and flow inside him, a mix of emotions, none of them good, flowing through him like black ink in water. There was sadness, horror, regret and anger that Sam hadn't trusted him enough to come to him. Instead it had come to this: two brothers, one fate.

Sam would share Dean's final fate, no matter what. Bobby was certain of that.

The huge shaggy Sam wolf stood motionless, his muzzle tilted up into the open air. The animal shook off the remnants of its clothing. Before the shreds of tattered cloth and blue jeans fell to earth, the wolf bounded away, leaping and scrambling across car rooftops, in pursuit of his brother.

* * *

Hank Bates settled in forty feet up over the forest floor. The branches underneath him were thick, solid. They easily held his weight. That good feeling he'd experienced earlier became even stronger. He'd get out of this in one piece. He was sure of it. His prey was a monster, but he was a hunter. He'd put down monsters for more years than that poor doomed wolf bastard of a kid had been alive. It was time to really get down to business.

Bates leaned forward. He aimed the rifle down, and the underbrush came into sharp focus when he looked through the scope.

There. A flash of dark blond fur in the underbrush. A glimpse of wide green eyes.

The man waited.

He wasn't all that concerned when he lost sight of his quarry. The wolf would re-surface soon. Bates knew that. After all, unless that wolf thing could sprout wings and fly, this whole thing was going to end only one way.

Bates sighted the rifle at the base of the tree. He tilted his head to one side as he heard a sound. It was a small noise. Scratchy.

His finger tightened on the trigger when he realized what it was.

The scrabble of claws against bark.

The scope filled with that ferocious lupine face, all bared teeth, blond fur and inhumanly bright green eyes. The wolf wasn't on the ground.

It ran vertically, up the side of the tree.

_Like a cat-just like a freakin' cat-_

Bates fired, and the wolf somehow jinked to the side. He heard the bullet thunk into the ground, and then white hot pain flared in his left ankle. The pain was all consuming, it filled the whole damn world, from horizon to horizon. Hot wet breath fanned heavily through the cloth around his right ankle, and there was a tug, a strong yank downward.

_-got me-Oh Christ, the damn thing's got me-_

The animal had his right ankle in his mouth, all four paws balanced against the tree. The wolf released his grip on the tree trunk. He was dead weight now, but certainly not as dead as Bates would have liked.

Hank Bates slipped down, in the one direction he definitely did not want to go. He held onto the rifle, but both arms windmilled wildly for a brief second. The fingers of his left hand skated uselessly against rough tree bark. He grabbed at one of the smaller branches, but it wasn't enough. His fingers were hooked into claws. He skinned the leaves off the smaller branch as it bent underneath his hand.

The pain was intense, and Bates fought against the rising panic he felt _(bit me, the sumbitch bit me, I'm bit-). _He somehow managed to hook his left leg over one of the lower branches in front of him. He tried to tilt the M40 down towards the beast, but the lower branches that were a help when he climbed up worked against him now. The side of the rifle slammed against them. He couldn't aim down. No joy. No clear shot.

Bates flexed the muscles of his forearm. There was a click as the spring released, and his right hand filled with seven inches of blessed steel. He leaned forward, and the muscles of his right leg screamed as the change in position tightened them unbearably. There was also the matter of an added weight on his leg, nearly two hundred pounds of wolf fugly. A spike of pain lanced up his spine, but Bates bent his knee, pulled his right leg upwards, towards his chest. As he pulled the beast came within range.

"Fuck _you_," Bates whispered fiercely. "And fuck _this_." He jerked forward and plunged the knife into the thing's upper back, just behind the right shoulder.

The wolf yelped, a high, shrill sound that deepened into a muffled roar of outrage. Dark red blood splattered against thick blond fur. Its lips skinned backwards from sharp white teeth.

But it didn't let go. Instead the wolf clamped down even tighter and shook its head vigorously, from side to side.

Bates screamed. White hot pain screeched up his nerve endings, clenched his muscles tight. The muzzle of the rifle tilted downward. His finger jerked involuntarily, and the shot streaked low and useless into the forest floor below.

The wolf growled and shook its head again. Hank Bates gasped at the sudden rush of pain. The damned thing grinned at him with its jaws stretched around his ankle. It looked pretty pleased with itself; a hard, vicious glint shone in those bright green eyes. The knife waggled from side to side in the meat of its back.

Bates' muscles shivered and trembled weakly, then gave out entirely. His left leg straightened out. Everything went even further south in horrid slow motion.

Bates fell from the tree, and the wolf fell with him.

* * *

Sam bounded over trunks and roof tops, over the tops of buses and trucks, in and out of open pick-up truck beds, and the people scattered when they saw him coming. He ran in a straight line, not a zig zag pattern, in the direction of the shots. He paid absolutely no attention to the screaming humans around him.

The huge brown wolf reached the shoulder of the highway. He disappeared into the forest in the blink of an eye.

"Damn it!" Rufus snarled. "Come on!" He slipped his gun back underneath his jacket and ran. He scowled at the civilians as he charged forward, pushing open car doors closed, ignoring their protests as he bulled his way past them between cars.

Bobby ran after him. He didn't remember until later that he'd left his own gun in the Impala. It was just as well.

Ten minutes later none of that mattered anyway.

* * *

Dean rose to his feet slowly. His legs shook at first, and then he steadied himself.

Sirens.

He laid his ears back at the high warbling sounds. Not his favorite sound, of course. Never was, not even when he was fully human.

Even though the knife was still inside him, buried in his body up to the hilt, he felt just a little stiffness, that was all. Dean knew he'd taken several direct hits; he could still feel the bullets inside his body, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He wasn't going to die. Not here. There was plenty of time for that later, at the crossroads, when he gave Leslie and Harlan back their lives.

Dean turned in the direction of the man on the ground behind him. Ol' Dirty Harry Callahan wasn't looking too capable now, not all brisk and official like he had back in the hospital, when he wore that grey suit and flipped that fake-ass detective tin around. The hunter lay in dense underbrush, sprawled out on his back. Dean sniffed the air, then nodded, satisfied. The underbrush cushioned his fall. He wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.

_We don't kill humans, Dean. __That makes us just like the things we hunt._

_It's way too late for that Marine lecture, Dad._

The thought occurred to Dean that if Dad was seeing any of this from the Hereafter, he'd probably be very disappointed in his eldest son. And maybe it was way too late for shame too, because Dean didn't feel any of _that_, either.

This sonofabitch tried to kill Sam. That was all the reason Dean needed.

That damn sniper rifle lay on top of the hunter's chest. Dean padded over, lowered his head and snagged the strap with his teeth. The acrid taste of human sweat, fear and gun oil made him salivate a little. He jerked at the gun, then it out away, lifted his head and pulled the rifle off the man. He walked backwards with the rifle until he was four feet away and then he dropped the weapon on the ground.

The man's eyes blinked open, dazed and unfocused at first.

Dean stood quietly, his head cocked slightly to one side.

The sorry sonofabitch tried to sit up. Dean pricked his ears alertly at the crunch and shift of broken bones. His nostrils flared at the rich salty tang of the fresh blood leaking from the man's ankle.

_Hurt you. Good. _

Sudden pain and shock made the hunter jerk upward. His eyes immediately lost that glazed over look. The man raised himself up onto his elbows, painfully, slowly. He stared at his mangled leg, and the look of pure horror in those grey eyes was priceless.

"You…you bit me…"

Dean smirked at him.

"DAMN YOU, YOU BIT ME!" the man roared.

_'m just getting started, you sonofabitch_. Dean snarled, exposing his teeth. His hackles rose and his tail bristled.

The sound of sirens and cop cars screeching to a halt drifted from the highway. Doors opened and slammed shut, and there was the creak of leather, the whisper of metal sliding against leather as the cops drew their guns.

Dean's ears twitched at the faint voices of the people on the highway as they babbled excitedly.

"…wolves, officer, two of 'em…"

"Biggest damn wolves I ever saw…"

_Huh._ Dean rolled his eyes. As usual, those dumb civilians didn't know what the hell they were talking about.

At the same time Dean heard something moving around in the underbrush behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't help snarling, low and angry. This place was getting too crowded. And he was running out of time.

A huge shaggy brown wolf stood in the clearing.

Dean turned all the way around, staring. The air around the wolf shimmered, and instead of the wolf Dean saw a small red fox. He blinked in confusion. This didn't make any sense. The wolf and the fox, he'd seen them before. He'd played with them, dreamed about them while he was in the hospital.

So what the hell were they doing here?

The fox Changed. Dean saw blue green eyes, shaggy brown hair. Faded jeans. The posture of the newcomer, the slight slump of those broad shoulders, was all too familiar.

_Sam?_ Dean's eyes widened. His ears stood straight up. His body knew the truth before his mind did, because his tail drooped. _No._

Sam looked sheepish, unsure of himself. He looked suddenly, horribly young. His broad shoulders slumped, and then just as quickly, the image shifted again. The brown wolf was back.

_Uh…hi…_

_S-Sammy? What…what the hell is this? _Dean shook his head in stunned disbelief. _What did you do?_

Both brothers held each other's complete attention now, and that was a _terrible_ mistake.

_I - I didn't want you to be alone…_

From behind came the rustle of clothing, the heavy drag of a body through the brush, punctuated by a loud grunt, almost a groan, and then a triumphant rush of words: "Got you now, you lousy bastard-"

Dean turned towards the sounds, and even as he did he knew he was too late.

The hunter had his rifle again.

* * *

The sound of the first shot echoed flat and ugly through the woods.

Bobby stumbled when he heard the noise. It pierced his heart and weakened his knees.

He and Rufus ran faster.

* * *

To be concluded next Saturday.


	20. hey man, nice shot

**_A/N:_ **I've had trouble logging onto FFnet. The problem seems to be fixed now, so here we go_. _Chapter title taken from the song by Filter. The remaining chapters of this story follow this one.

* * *

_**Chapter 20 – Hey, Man, Nice Shot **_

The blond wolf turned in a tight smooth circle, green eyes blazing, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl.

Bates laughed as he pulled the trigger.

Something hard thunked against Dean's forehead, right between his eyes. Bone vibrated with the hit, hard enough to force his forepaws off the ground and push him backwards a couple of steps on his hind legs.

The bullet tumbled as it entered the soft tissue of his brain. The silver in the special round had no effect on Dean. The penetration of his brain by a foreign object did. Colors suddenly became too intense, too bright, then faded to soft grey. His body jerked and stuttered as nerve endings were cut, and he couldn't feel the ground underneath his paws anymore.

The shot was a flat blurry echo he didn't recognize, the crack of a tree branch breaking in the distance. Dean paid it no mind.

There was something he had to do. For Sam. And he couldn't remember what that was.

All the killing rage he'd felt inside vanished, blown apart. What was left was a grey numbness inside his head. It was hard to think.

_Sammy…_

Another metallic click, another thunk, this time an inch higher than the last one.

Dean blinked once as his head jerked backwards, and then his gaze grew blank and distant. For an instant he stared up into the bright grey sky above.

…_nothin' bad's…_

The chill inside his head spread down to his limbs.

…_gonna happen to you…_

Bright grey sunlight warmed his fur, and he couldn't understand the chill he felt inside.

…_long as 'm around…_

The third shot entered his chest. It severed an artery leading to his heart.

…_nothin' bad's…gonna…_

The impact lifted Dean off his feet, flung him backward.

…_long as 'm…_

He twisted in mid-air, an autumn leaf tumbling in the wind.

_Sam,_ Dean thought dully. _Sam-m-_

Dean fell.

* * *

_No._

_Dean, nooooooo-_

* * *

One down, one to go.

"AAAAAAAARRRRROOOOOO-"

The noise the brown wolf made was terrible, a roar that almost sounded like words. The thing howled its rage as it lunged forward, and Bates swung the rifle muzzle in its direction. He squeezed off first one shot, and then another. He hit it, he knew he did, blood sprayed from its right shoulder like rain, but it didn't stop, it slammed into him, and then, Jesus, the thing had the rifle barrel in its mouth, shook it back and forth like a terrier with a rat. Metal buckled, and the rifle flew out of Bates' hands as the wolf jerked its head to one side.

Its claws shredded his chest and belly as it straddled him, ripping his fatigue jacket to shreds. Bates saw those lips skin back from sharp white teeth, and he threw his arms up over his throat, even as that shaggy brown head came down at him. His left boot heel kicked up divots of grass and dirt; pain shot up his useless right leg but he kicked out anyway. He couldn't move. The damned thing was heavier than it looked. Those blue green eyes looked almost human.

It was extremely pissed.

That shaggy brown head came down at him, growling, all teeth and rage and bright blue green eyes. Hot moist breath fanned his skin, and Bates knew he was going to get bit. Again. There was no way around it. Better to let Fido have his arm than his throat. Bates shielded his throat with his left arm, his chin nestled inside the crook of his arm, as he reached down with his right. The mutt wasn't so damn smart after all.

The crosshatching of the gun butt of the Taurus revolver felt good against the palm of his right hand. He saw himself pull the gun in one smooth motion and doubletap Rover in the head.

Bates screamed instead.

Teeth grated against bone, tore flesh and muscle, over and over again. Hot breath fanned against his bare bleeding skin (_Jesus, oh jesus please, please-), _and the wolf never stopped, he never stopped biting, _(ohgodohgodohgod) _those sharp white teeth were stained with his blood now, they scissored through his skin_ (bit, o the sumbitches bit me)_.

Despite the pain jangling his muscles and nerve endings, Bates pointed the Taurus at the wolf and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Sam couldn't speak, but he snarled, he thundered out his fear and his rage.

_-shot my brother you bastard you shot him gonna kill you gonna rip your heart out-_

The gun went off. Sam yelped as the bullet sheared off the tip of his right ear. He ducked his head down and clamped his jaws around the man's arm even tighter, shook his head from side to side.

The hunter screamed. His back arched, but the muzzle of the gun came up. It filled Sam's vision, wavered in the air less than an inch from Sam's left eye. The man pulled the trigger again.

Sam let go. He jerked backwards just as the gun barked and bucked.

Red hot pain striped Sam's fur at the corner of his left eye. His vision on that side went white.

The gun went off again, and Sam stumbled backwards, away from the man. A hard blow to his chest spun him halfway around, and he collapsed onto his haunches. Something warm splashed down his chest.

The muscles of his back tensed as he anticipated the final shot.

"Boys, you never hear the shot that kills you," Dad said once. Sam hated that particular Marine lecture.

Sam blinked to clear his vision. That didn't help, but what he saw in front of him broke his heart all over again. Dean lay on his side a few feet away, as still and quiet as a stone, his only movement was the wind ruffling his thick fur.

Sam crawled forward on his belly. His chest hurt, and his legs didn't work right, but he only had eyes for Dean.

* * *

…_got me…oh God, the sumbitches got me…_

Hank Bates lay on his back and stared up at the open sky. All he could do was lay there and breathe, slow and shallow. The pain in his ankle and his arm throbbed in time to his heartbeat. His skin was sticky with blood; some of it was the wolf's. Most of it was his.

He waited. Waited for the wolves to rise to their feet. They'd He fully expected them to slink over, grinning, and tear him to pieces.

Bates breathed. He waited.

They didn't come.

The wolves didn't come, but the cops were surely coming.

He'd heard the sirens. They'd heard the shots, and no doubt they were deploying themselves right now, slipping through the forest with extreme caution. They'd be here soon enough. They'd take him to the hospital.

They'd take him to the hospital. And afterAfter ballistics examined his guns they'd handcuff him to the bed.

The special rounds in the M40 and the Taurus were a match to those found at various unsolved incidents. around the country. That family of five down in Georgia. Those two hitchhikers up in Washington state. ThatThe preacher's kid in Salt Lake City. Normal civilians didn't understand, they never would. Those people were tainted. They needed to be put down, in order to make everyone safe. He'd killed the fuglies, and then he had to kill the rest. Why couldn't civilians and law enforcement understand that?

Bates lay there, and he could feel the infection, the werewolf taint, sizzling and bubbling inside him. He'd turn soon enough.

Rumor had it that the only way to cure the victim of a werewolf bite was to kill the wolf that started it all, the one who originated that particular line. Bates chuckled bitterly, wearily to himself. Blondie wasn't the one. Neither was his brother. That bastard The wolf Bates needed to kill now was no doubt long gone, in another state probably, tearing some other poor bastard to pieces.

He couldn't live like the things he hunted. Wouldn't.

Bates tensed the muscles of his right arm. TheyHe couldn't lift his arm at first. His muscles felt leaden, sluggish at first.

He could do this. Do this for himself. It seemed to take momentsminutes, days, weeks, years, but he finally willed his arm to move, in quick, hesitant jerks, until he felt the gun muzzle snugged securely underneath the shelf of his jaw.

His fingers shook. So did his arm. The gun moved in time with his quickening heartbeat.

"I won," Bates whispered out loud. "Y'hear me? I won. I put you bastards down. You got me, but I won. I'm the last man standing-"

He slipped his finger around the trigger and pulled.

Bates never heard the shot that echoed through the woods. There was a brief moment of pain, and then blackness rose up all around him. The air was foul with the stench of burnt matches. He saw red eyes in the black, slits of bright ruby red color.

The blackness moved.

It chuckled, and the noise sent a thrill of terror up Bates' spine.

* * *

"Dean?"

Dean's ears twitched at the sound. He knew his master's voice, and that voice wanted him to obey.

"Up, my beauty."

The woods looked different. The sun and the clouds no longer moved in the sky above. The sunlight darkened.. They were in an in-between place, the space between life and death. Dean paid the change absolutely no attention. He raised himself up. It was hard at first. There was still life in his body; it tugged at his ankles, just as stubborn and resistant as always. Electrical impulses flickered like captured fireflies bottled up inside the boney cage of his skull.

"That's my boy." Dad smiled tightly. He looked just as tall, dark and imposing as ever. For a moment his face shifted, exposing a shimmer of darkness in the air around Mei's ghost image overlaid the face of John Winchester: large bulging eyes, and a too wide mouth that stretched from ear to ear. The mouth filled with teeth, sharp and pointed, and a long red tongue snaked out over those cruel thin lips.

"Come here. Come."

Dean lifted his paws, tried to step free. He couldn't.

…_D-Dean…_

Dean looked down. He saw his wolf self and his human self, ghost images curled up on their sides, the wolf inside the man. Sam lay curled up beside him in a similar pose, his human head touching Dean's.

He hadn't noticed that before. Dean's pulse quickened, and he froze, startled. His ears drooped. He was caught. Sam's touch anchored him to his body.

…_D-Dean…duh…don't lea' me…_

_Sammy? No… _

Wang Mei scowled darkly. "Dean? Come here."

…_please…_

Dean whined. He stared down at his brother.

He remembered.

The shock and surprise of looking up and seeing how much Sam had Changed flooded through him. He saw the blood and the bullet holes. Sam's eyes were half open, and his left eye looked cloudy.

Dean shook his head from side to side in denial, as though doing that would change all of this. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Sam would be all right after he left, he was stronger, Dean knew he was, and right then he knew he'd thought wrong. Sam did this to himself. Stupid kid. There was no way he'd let Dean run alone in the dark.

_Sam….oh God, Sammy…_ Dean threw his head back and howled.

He dropped down on his belly beside his brother. He pushed at Sam with his paws, nuzzled Sam's head with his muzzle.

_Sammy…get up…don't do this…_

Sam didn't stir, and Dean became increasingly frantic.

…._get up…damn you, I said get up…_

Red murder flashed in Wang Mei's eyes. He would not tolerate being ignored. The force of his anger shook the ground, vibrated the air as he crossed the space between them in less than the blink of an eye. He knelt down and gripped Dean's muzzle hard. Dean knew better to yelp, even though his sharp teeth grazed his tongue. Wang Mei snarled as he jerked Dean's head up and around so that their eyes met. Dean's front paws dangled above the ground as he was forced back onto his haunches.

_"What is this? What is this?"_

Dean whined, low and desperate.

_"You grieve for him, is that it? After the way he's left you, time and time again?"_ Wang Mei tightened his grip. Dean let out a muffled groan of pain. _"We have a place down in hell together. A place and a purpose. You're mine now."_

"Is that all you've got to offer him?" a female voice called out.

A few feet away the air darkened. The woman who stepped into the open was a tall, shapely young woman with short blonde hair. She wore impossibly high stiletto heels and her slinky black dress hugged her curves, leaving little to the imagination. Her ruby red eyes gleamed with good humor.

The crossroads demon was amused.

"I thought we were gonna make a deal, Dean." She nodded at Wang Mei and the way he glared at her made her smile. "You're selling yourself short if you go with this one."

_"He's mine, bitch."_

She shrugged, clearly unimpressed. "So you say. Not a done deal, is it, Wang Mei? Open your eyes. His brother has more pull over him."

Wang Mei turned his glare on Dean. He released his hold on him with a vicious jerk and stood up.

"We can still make a deal, darlin'," she purred. "It's all up to you. Tell you what, I'll even sweeten the deal. Those people you chewed up at the Anderton Ironworks are a given. Wasn't their fault they met you the night you went all wolfy, boyo." The demon clasped both hands over her heart with a mock-sad smile. "Those puppy dog eyes of yours are just breaking my heart, so here's what I'm gonna do. I'll include Sam in the deal too."

Dean stared up at her warily.

"I can turn him back, Dean. He can be fully human again. He's screwed himself up, now and forever, amen, and that's all because of _you_."

The demon and her meatsuit became transparent. Everything did. Colors bled together, softened into a smeary grey blur. Wang Mei's rage shook the air, a wordless howl of inhuman rage and frustration, but it was softer, weaker now, and Dean paid it no mind.

"I can fix Sam for you," the crossroads demon purred.

All Dean could think about was Sam. Sam normal again, living his life, the life he deserved to have, along with Leslie Hardy and Harlan Gates.

"Don't be so quick to throw it all away," the demon said with a wink. She faded completely from view, but her laughter echoed in the clearing.

"I'll be waiting for you, sweetness."

* * *

The brothers looked like death on eight legs.

Sam and Dean Winchester stood huddled together, nose to nose. Sam's dark brown fur was splattered with blood. The stiff way Sam held himself and the blood splatter told Bobby all he needed to know. Sam's left eye was covered with a thin sheen of white, yet he oriented himself towards Dean. He knew where his brother was at all times.

Dean didn't look much better. His bloody blond fur was riddled with bullet holes. He lifted his head to stare at Bobby and Rufus as they stepped into the clearing. The look in his eyes was distant and unfocused, but his lips wrinkled back from his teeth as he snarled.

Rufus gripped his gun with both hands, but he didn't raise it. The look he gave Dean was hard and direct. "All right now, Winchester. You better behave yourself."

The bullet hole between Dean's eyes was plainly visible, as was the second wound in his forehead. Bobby squinted. That was bad enough, but there was something else, something sticking out of Dean's back, behind his right shoulder.

The object was the hilt of a knife. The handle was wrapped with black grip tape. The rest of it was buried inside Dean's body.

Dean stood with his head down, his large green eyes glazed over, unseeing. Sam whimpered and licked the side of his brother's face. Dean didn't react. The muscles in Dean's back rippled, and the blade in his back rose up, one bloody inch at a time, until the knife finally tumbled out to land in the grass at Dean's feet.

"Jesus Christ," Bobby whispered.

"The man upstairs' got nothin' to do with this," Rufus snapped.

Sam bussed his muzzle against the side of Dean's face. He lowered his head wearily, and as he did two bloody, flattened bullet fragments pushed their way out of the holes in his head and dropped to the dusty ground.

The shooter lay sprawled on his back nearby. His clothes were nothing out of the ordinary: fatigue jacket, jeans, and workboots. His face was unrecognizable; half of it was gone. It was obvious that Dean or Sam, possibly both, had attacked him. The man's left arm and left ankle were hamburger now. The revolver clutched in the hunter's stiffening fingers told the story. Suicide.

Bobby stared at the body and felt a bright stab of hatred, satisfaction, and yes, pride. Pride in "his" boys. They'd survived, at least for the moment. He didn't try to fight any of it. That heap of cooling meat and dusty clothes over there used to be a living human being, probably someone's brother, someone's son. The funny thing was, Bobby just couldn't bring himself to care.

His eyes were cold, hooded underneath the bill of his trucker's cap. "Damn fool thought Dean was a werewolf."

"Thought you said he was."

"He's not." Bobby shook his head. "Clean the wax out of your ears for once. That's not what this is. That thing back there in the factory…it was a spirit. Hell of a thing. But it wasn't a werewolf. Dean bit Sam, but Sam turned himself. For his brother."

Sam stood quietly as Dean raised his head and sniffed the air. Both brothers pricked their ears alertly as they stared at something in the forest past Rufus and Bobby.

"Cops," Rufus hissed. "We gotta go."

Dean backed up, and Sam moved with him.

"Boys—"

The wolves turned to stare at Bobby.

"Go to my place. You hear me? Go on now."

He wasn't sure, but he thought Sam nodded. Then the brown wolf turned to follow his brother.

Dean moved stiffly at first, as though he really had to think about walking, as if he'd forgotten how. He moved awkwardly into a trot.

Sam stumbled and fell. He hit the ground in a cloud of dust. Dean stopped, and he circled his brother anxiously.

A lone helicopter buzzed lazily overhead. It could have been a police chopper, or a news copter. It was too far away to tell.

Dean ignored everything but Sam. In all likelihood local law enforcement was less than half a mile away on the ground, and closing the gap.

"Come on, Singer, we gotta go," Rufus grumbled.

"Not yet. Not until the boys are clear."

Dean eased up along Sam on his left side and lowered his front legs. It looked like a play bow, as if he were inviting Sam to play with him, but he braced himself and leaned into his brother. Sam's legs shook as he pushed himself up. Dean trembled as he took Sam's weight, and then he slowly stood up.

Dean took a step forward. Sam did too. They bumped shoulders against each other as they stumbled together. Dean's knees buckled. He leaned into Sam. They took more steps in that manner, each brother holding the other up. Their thick coats were frosted with dull brown dust. It was a hard thing to watch.

Sometimes, even after being shot, humans and animals could rise to their feet and walk, sometimes even run, for some distance even half a mile or so, before the wound put them down for good.

Sam and Dean never stopped moving. They moved together as a team for five yards, then ten.

At the fifteen yard mark something changed. Their motion became smoother, more graceful. Sam's stiffness vanished. They no longer held each other up. A few more strides, and they ran side by side, fully extended, effortlessly.

Dean turned to look at his brother, and the damn fool kids grinned at one another, happy wolfish smiles.

The brothers ran into the forest, as the copter circled overhead and men with guns slowly spread through the woods. The outside world didn't exist for them anymore. In that moment there was no more hurt or pain or fear. Sam and Dean had each other, they were together, and for this moment in time that was more than enough.

* * *

Chapter 21 is next.


	21. hair of the dog

_**A/N: **_I don't own _Supernatural._ This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. Chapter title taken from the song by Nazareth.

* * *

_**Chapter 21- Hair of the Dog**_

Rufus Turner and Bobby Singer returned to Singer Salvage after they made it back to the traffic jam on the highway. The place was a parking lot, and all they could do was sit there and answer questions.

"Yes sir, I saw those wolves," Rufus told the cops. "Hell of a thing, isn't it?

Bobby didn't say much. He spoke when he was spoken to, and that was it.

The sun was low on the horizon hours later when they pulled into the yard. The rumble of the Impala's engine grated on Bobby's nerves. It reminded him of the boys too much. He could smell the faint spicy scent of that aftershave Dean always wore. He couldn't wait to turn off the engine and get out of the car, but he didn't want to leave it either.

Singer Salvage was empty, except for Bobby's dog. Rumsfeld greeted his human in the yard.

The night stretched over the land, long purplish deep shadows that covered everything like a blanket. Rufus and Bobby watched and waited. Bobby turned the lights on out in the yard. It was the hunter version of a candle in the window, a light to guide wayward souls home.

No one came.

What happened on the highway even hit the national news. The New York Post (_When Killer Wolves Attack!_ the headlines screamed) and all three major network evening news shows. The proper authorities were on the look-out for two oversized wolves rumored to have escaped from an animal breeder. The animal breeder was presumed to be the dead guy with half a face lying in the woods.

That was bullshit, of course. The official party line: _Nothing to see here ladies and gentlemen. Nothing at all. Move on, and don't worry, we're on top of this. That's our story and we're sticking to it. _

The woods were searched. Helicopters flew overhead, and regular hunters with high-powered rifles and bloodhounds joined the police search. Nothing.

After a day or so there was no more news, nothing about two large wild wolves found in the woods, dead or alive. Bobby pulled the tarp off that large brown sedan in the yard and he and Rufus suited up. They made the rounds of all the hospitals within a fifty mile radius. Detectives M. Romney and Michael Jordan asked emergency room personnel about recently admitted gunshot cases, particularly young white males.

There were none.

A day later Rufus jingled his keys as he sauntered for the door. "Much as I'd like to hang around and watch you grow girly parts, Singer, I'm outta here."

Bobby stood in the doorway and watched Rufus pull out of the yard in a swirl of dust. Rumsfeld followed him out into the yard. Five minutes later Bobby had a crowbar in his hand as he busily beat the rusted hood and windshield of a rusted out pick-up truck. His dog sat patiently, watching him.

He needed the scrap for parts. Yeah, that was what he told himself.

Two minutes later Bobby decided that kind of thing was too strenuous for a man his age. He needed a drink, something stronger than beer, so he went into the house and reacquainted himself with his old friend Jack.

And Josè.

* * *

_**Three weeks later**_

"Hey, Bobby. How you doin'?"

"Just peachy, Ellen."

"Hey, don't take that tone with me, you old fool. The boys will turn up, I know they will. You asked me to keep eyes and ears out for anything about wolves right?"

"Right."

"Couple of hunters were at the Roadhouse this morning. Said they were up in Blackstone National Park a week ago."

"Hunting wolves?"

"That's what they thought at first. Something killed a couple of campers up there. At first they thought it was a wendigo. They thought wrong. Turns out it was an Ilimu demon. Thing hitched a ride inside this grizzly bear. Smokey chased them through the forest, and treed them. They said the demon was hacking away at the tree with its claws, and along comes these two wolves. The wolves attacked the bear long enough for the hunters to stake it with blessed wood stakes. They did the exorcism right there. The wolves ran off."

"Wolves, huh?"

"Uh huh. Said they were the biggest wolves either one had ever seen. One was blond, the other was dark brown…oh my God. That was-"

"Yeah, it was."

* * *

The stories came in pretty regularly after that, sometimes once a week, or every other week. There were articles in the National Inquisitor, fluff pieces on the regular news, stories from other hunters, even a notoriously blurry vid on You Tube: A freakishly tall young man and a large blond wolf roamed the land killing evil. It was widely regarded as a new urban legend. Sometimes there were two oversized wolves, one dark brown, one blond. They hunted bad things and saved people.

Days into weeks, weeks rolled into months, and during that time Bobby never heard about two brothers who hunted together, never heard mention of a human hunter with dark blond hair and wide green eyes.

* * *

Rufus showed up one morning in early September. Bobby opened the door, then quirked an eyebrow at him. "Idjit, didn't I tell you to wait for me? That was a two man job." He eyed the sling on Rufus' right arm. "Just a broken arm? Huh. You got off light."

"I hate witches, okay?" Rufus stomped inside. "They don't play fair, with all those damn spells and curses."

"Next time, I say wait, you wait."

"Get off my case, Singer. You got any beer?"

"You know I do."

* * *

It was peaceful out in the yard, a good day to be alive. Rumsfeld sat at Bobby's feet. Usually he'd stretch out on the ground, sprawled out half asleep, but today he sniffed the air and seemed to be waiting for something.

Rufus and Bobby didn't notice.

The dog cocked his head at the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway.

"You expecting somebody, Singer?" Rufus pulled another bottle out of the six pack. It was trick with that busted right arm of his, but he managed.

Bobby shrugged. "Might be a customer wanting to pull auto parts." He put his bottle down and stood up. "Won't take a moment."

"Hey, Bobby?" someone called out. "Hello?"

It was a male voice. A familiar one, one they hadn't heard in months. Bobby and Rufus froze.

Sam Winchester turned the corner of the house and walked into the yard. He was two-legged, whole, and smiling. His left eye was normal. Hell, he looked pretty damn good.

Rufus dropped his bottle of beer. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Bobby couldn't either. He grabbed the boy in a bear hug and didn't let go for a full minute.

Then: "Sam? Where's your brother?"

Sam smiled, just as Rumsfeld rose to his feet and barked.

A huge blond wolf stood quietly at the edge of the yard.

"What?" Rufus grunted. "Two legs isn't good enough for him now?"

The remark made Bobby release Sam and cuff Rufus on the back of his head.

Sam chuckled. He reached into the bucket and retrieved a beer, then sat down in one of the lawn chairs.

"What?" Rufus grumbled as he raised his hand to rub the sting of the slap away. "Yeah, I said it."

"Dean's being an ass about this. He can change back if he wants to, just like I can," Sam smirked. Dean's ears flattened slightly. He grumbled at his brother.

Rufus glared at Dean and Dean glared right back at him.

Rufus blinked first.

The corners of Dean's mouth turned up in a smirk. He'd won the stare-down, He was pretty pleased with himself.

Rumsfeld barked at Bobby again. _Boss, there's a wolf in the yard. _He cocked his head to one side and stared at the newcomer, and then he smiled, a slight doggy smile. His stubby tail wagged, slowly at first.

_Huh. He looks like a critter but he smells like that Dean boy._

The Rottie padded over to investigate.

Dean stood up straighter. He was suddenly a picture perfect alpha male, with his head head high, his chest thrust out, tail curled over his back. He looked very impressive, even majestic, but Rumsfeld was not impressed or intimidated. He never stopped smiling. He walked right over and sniffed at Dean's nose, and his tail wagged even faster.

Then he tried to sniff Dean's butt.

That was too much. Dean huffed at him. He showed the dog his eyeteeth, backed up and then jumped up on the hood of Bobby's old truck. He laid down on the roof with a thump. That was far enough away from his new admirer. Rumsfeld sat down and stared at him, and he never stopped smiling.

Sam slouched forward in the lawn chair. He knew what was coming. He rolled his beer bottle between his massive palms.

"So. You couldn't say anything to me?" Bobby grumbled. "Getting in touch with your inner wolf. That was your plan? Idjit."

"So why doesn't he change back?" Rufus muttered gruffly.

"I think…I think Dean feels that he doesn't deserve to be here. Doesn't deserve to be human. That's why he stays four-legged all the time."

Dean huffed, and then rolled his eyes.

Rufus took another swallow of beer. "I agree with the furball, Doctor Phil. That's the dumbest thing I ever heard of."

Bobby said quietly. "You can heal yourself now?"

Sam nodded. "That first night we holed up in a cave." He stared hard at Dean, and the wolf stared right back. "I thought…I thought he was going to die on me. I really did. So I told him not to. Begged him to stay with me. Didn't think he'd listen, but he did."

"You guys didn't go to a vet?"

Rufus' comment made Dean roll his eyes again.

"No. We spent two days in that cave. When they were ready, our bodies just pushed the rounds out. Took another day to heal completely, and then we hit the road."

Dean stood up. He shook himself from head to tail and then jumped down from the truck. He stalked off, head slightly lowered. A few steps away he glanced back over one massive furry blond shoulder. His eyes narrowed and he gave Sam a dirty look. Then he shook his head in disgust and walked off.

Bobby, Rufus and even Rumsfeld looked at Sam. _Where's he going?_

Sam shrugged. "He doesn't like this part. Doesn't want to hear it. Dean tried to make it to a crossroads. He tried to ditch me, but I knew what he was doing. So I followed him."

"How'd you know?"

"I…I just did. Sometimes I can hear inside his head. It's not words, exactly. More like pictures. Flashes. Dean didn't realize it at first. If he had, he would've been sneakier about it. He hates that, too, 'cause sometimes he can't block me out, either. I think it's the ties of blood between us. When he headed out that morning, I followed him. He told me to back off and I told him that he couldn't get away, that I'd track him down. I told him that if he made his deal, I'd go make mine, to change _him_ back, and I also told him that I knew those demons would go for that, just for the chance to screw over our family."

Rufus whistled. "Damn, Winchester. That was harsh."

Bobby said quietly. "You weren't bluffing. And he knew it."

Sam nodded. "So now he stays four legged all the time. It's not what I wanted, but it's a step. Baby steps, that's what Dad told us one time." Sam nodded in the direction his brother took, then he took a long swig of beer. "At least he's not trying for the crossroads anymore."

Two hours later Bobby Singer handed Sam Winchester the keys to the Impala. The car he'd driven in was some junker he'd paid cash for on a used car lot. The new credit cards were good.

Dean was still nowhere in sight.

Bobby got it. He did, but the idea that they were leaving still didn't sit well with him. He couldn't coddle them, and he knew that, too.

They had work to do.

When Sam turned the engine and the girl roared into life again, Bobby ignored the way his eyes suddenly felt all wet and gritty. It was the damn pollen in the air. Yeah. That was it.

"You got girly parts," Rufus nodded solemnly.

Sam stopped the car before he drove out of the yard. The brake lights flashed red, and the Impala sat there, rumbling quietly. Sam leaned over and opened the passenger door. Dean trotted out into the open, smirking. His tail wagged madly as he ran around the Impala, sniffing the black car from the headlights to the trunk and back again. Dean snuffled noisily at all four tires.

He had his girl back, even though he couldn't drive her. Dean trotted around the car until Sam called out, "Dude, we're burning daylight. Sometime this year would be nice."

Dean ran around to the passenger side, jumped into the front seat and then scrambled over the top of the bench seat into the back.

Bobby turned away. He heard the door creak shut. The Impala rumbled off into the distance, and he didn't turn around.

* * *

The epilogue to this story is next.


	22. epilogue: carry on my wayward son

_Who Let The Dogs Out_ is now complete. Much thanks to everyone who reviewed, who fav'd it, and everyone who put in story/author alerts. I appreciate the interest in this twisted tale of mine. And thanks again, Bundibird!

Chapter title taken from the song by Kansas. Enuf said.

* * *

_**Epilogue – Carry On My Wayward Son**_

Six months later Bobby heard a deep familar rumble out in the yard. He recognized the sound of the Impala's engine. He stood at the kitchen sink and cocked his head slightly at the creak of the doors as they opened and closed, and he tried not to smile. They were home again, his two prodigal sons, never mind that one lived mostly two legged and the other one had four legs. He'd already resigned himself to the fact that he'd never see Dean human and two legged ever again.

He wiped his wet hands on the dish towel, and as he walked through the house Bobby was already thinking about where they could spend the night. He had room, and the place was kind of lonely lately. Having company would be a good thing. He had a good supply of hamburger. Maybe be could fry some up, get wolf!Dean to eat something this time. Somehow Bobby doubted the kid would want to eat dog food out of one of Rumsfeld's bowls.

" 'bout time you boys showed up," Bobby called out as he swung the door. "You never call, and you never write—"

The man who stood on the porch wasn't Sam. Bobby stared at those wide green eyes, that freckled skin, and all of a sudden he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Dean Winchester stared down at his boots, then he raised his head and smirked. The cocky attitude he tried to project wasn't entirely convincing. Dean seemed unsure of himself.

Bobby wordlessly stepped forward and yanked Dean into his arms. Dean yelped a little. The hug was tight and fierce, and not being able to breathe might become a factor pretty soon.

Everything went blurry just then, and Bobby was pretty glad that Rufus wasn't around. One more crack about "girly parts" and he'd have to knock Rufus on his ass. When his vision cleared Bobby looked over Dean's shoulder and saw Sam leaning against the Impala.

Sam nodded, and Bobby nodded back.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean whispered softly. "It's – it's good to see you."

"Dean." Bobby nodded, his cheek pressed against the younger man's. He swallowed past that sudden hard lump in his throat. "It's good to see you too."

~finis~


End file.
